Start writing, get in the flow on the computer not the pen. It’s been 2 years since I wrote anything for internet consumption and 1 year since I woke up one day, gave my two year old some cornflakes and removed all the content I’d made from the internet, so what the fuck am I doing now? Writing is dying, reading is dying, the internet is killing it, many people aren’t able to spell the English language because predictive typing on mobile devices does it for them, the machines are literally filling in the gap before we get there, before we’ve even got the practice stretching into more than 70 or 120 or however many characters we are boxed into on our screen. Somehow, to me, this means we are boxed into our dreams. The only way I can approach this re-writing of our lives is to mine back through the years and remember how many words I wrote during four years of English literature degree, how many hours that took, and how many hours of reading pages and pages of scan reading and quoting and memorising other peoples words, words that have been around for longer than me or my daughter or my mother or my sister or my grandmother or her mother. And change my habits. The Medium is the Message and once the oil runs out we will be in a bitter war to save all our internet words into paper, or stone or memory once again. I met a woman called Rachel who immediately sparked that shallow emotion of jealousy in me when she described how she is writing, something bigger than a story, but reluctant to pin an it on it such as novella or book, just a handful of story ideas that I’m writing every day around for 2 hours. Green envy rushes to the space between my eyes and I turn into the well-arent-you-lucky monster and I’m still attracted to her and the way she moves like she is free, her body is free, she jumps up from our table and goes spying on the formal entertainment that the three of us are coolly trying to ignore, and I remember I move like this but not when I’m jealous. Her words “I write for two hours a day”, come back to me when I’m driving to pick up the child. Again they come back to me when I’m playing nurseries with the child at home. And the next day as I fall asleep after 7 hours working in the woods. How many lives can one person have? How many roles can one person fit into their day and night? And what can they create from each of those roles? What are we doing when we are dreaming? Communicating with ourselves? Even if I write 2 hours a week I know I will be closer to my wild self, closer to communicating my wild self. Which for some reason, I’m beginning to realise is more important than anything right now. Re-prioritizing what’s important. Godin, he’s is done to death and who knows what his model looks like now, pure sourcery, but the nuggets are still there, find your voice, talk in your voice, write in your voice, whatever way it has to come out take the easiest route for you, I cant do video talking at least not yet, I still believe I’m carrying something that’s not mine and videoing that is not just an intrusion on my privacy but whoever that thing is connected to’s privacy too. I’m glad I worked that one out finally. So I believe I can’t fully show myself because I’m holding things that are bound up with others and to show those things without permission is to betray something? Wow. I’m not even 15 minutes into my timer and that’s a massive revelation. Thanks keyboard. So I’ve also been looping back over text messages and my dismay at how some people rely on text messages to justify their fears or needs. Preempting meetings – I’m on my way. I’m 5 minutes late. I’m here. Me me me. Justifying your existence with written short form direct to someone else’s screen. To which they are probably addicted. At the core of this I suppose is why any of us ever write. One of the child’s books says something like “learn as much as you can and leave notes for others“. Leaving your legacy. Back to legacy. What is your 500 year legacy? What things have even lasted in the human world that long? Stories, some books, buildings/structures, no businesses, only if you argue that trading is a business, but as a model only sex pure transactional sex has lasted longer. Writing and language and books are probabaly the longest running things. The internet has surely multiplied the potential connections your writing can make, but it feels very flimsy to me. The medium is the message, therefore we are still in an age of writing is the message and the medium technology, though I doubt it’s as reductive as that. So I will continue to write, two hours a week if I can about whatever’s coming up that moment. Again, I’ve had thoughts this week about how sad the last few years have been and how opposite to what I felt I was going to live things are. I know I’m learning still but sometimes it’s hard to take. More abuse, unwanted pregnancy, unwanted diseases in the family, pain, and trying to chip out little moments of joy wherever possible, literally fighting for our joyous moments. Dancing again and again opening my body to allow it all to move through repeatedly and my body becomes stronger and simultaneously more loose with age and my mind goes into overdrive more noticeably with each new thing that happens and my naievety is unravelled over and over and over and I look back at the series of events and wonder what is hope even for? What is the purpose? I can see myself scraping myself up from the bottom of my own barrel of hate and continuing and I’m wondering what for, what will you do that will make all of this worthwhile? Probably nothing new or outrageous or desirable or successful, probably just continuing to find healing in my own actions. What heals me? What heals you?
Writing. Painting. Connecting.