Thursday, February 21, 2008
I never knew that sitting could be so hard.
How can I think about Miranda July when I'm constantly reading and rereading and writing and rewriting fucking Bataille and the words "cock, cunt, asshole, piss, and mother" over and over, again and again. Nothing is a relief. I thought Hemingway's character from the Old Man and the Sea would start falling in love with the fish, and the only appropriate ending would be some inappropriate contact between the two. Miranda July is simply just not jaded enough, nor strange enough for the now that is me in my moment. Eggs will never again be just eggs, kind of like after reading Crash, car crashes were no longer car crashes, and I had the serious (mis?)fortune of being in one shortly after my completed reading. I love living in books, it just becomes a problem when no one else is there.
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1 comment:
Kelly,
Yeah,I understand this:
"Eggs will never again be just eggs, kind of like after reading Crash, car crashes were no longer car crashes, and I had the serious (mis?)fortune of being in one shortly after my completed reading."
This (the eggs not being eggs and the car crashes not being car crashes, etc.) is the danger of analysis/interpretation, so one has to make a space for it in one's life and then turn it off (or mostly). The fact is that in a significant way the world is real and tangible and working, so fiction (which is, in a significant way, unreal and intangible and malfunctioning), while it can be an interesting lens for looking at and re-imagining life, has to be a passion and not a way of proceeding. I'm not sure that makes any sense, but hang in and try not to be jaded. Your brain is on fire and that's the best thing going.
Matt
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