naive or no.
it will always be about the writing. i still trust i will always believe that.
more later. how on earth did i ever get myself into an englist lit course? don't you know, don't you know what you're doing? the sweetest secret. the only intimate place, forever and has been, always there solely inside you, for you to keep, precious even. ugh. waving hands frantic, slipping inside. bed caves and heart pulsing. pulse worth.
and now you're going to willingly(?) go back to, go back to the forcible exposure of that to total strangers you don't yet care about? you're going to use it as something of obvious utility, not the sheen not the feathers not the perfect pleasure of reading for you? how odd.
i'm still not sure, myself.
more too. but not well articulated; dizzy, always. ...the notion that literature is inherently something that must be "difficult" or evasive...in one sense i could love that, i could love that. but in another, very loud one, i think that's a load of bullshit. leonard cohen's exaltation of common folksongs, you know. the personal, the daily, the mundane, the strikingly obvious, clear. to say that literature cannot have any instant gratification is perverse to me. not that the feelings and interactions with the words can't develop further--but to say there is no love at first read (and i don't mean "just" lust, though lust is pure and can be very good as it is daring to be, but also it can be a profound instant understanding, a homecoming honestly. really. that's why things are spasmred. duh.) is. a terrible, wrong thing.
and it's not just the mystery or "exoticness" of that first read, when things are cryptic and zinging all around you swimmingly like fish in your brain and oh that's lovely but what does it mean--stop and think, for a moment, please stop and think, about how it's possible that is a meaning, a meaning academia always seems to ignore.
speaking self, the brain running wires. electrovolt. vomit and fusion. sometimes it refuses to be translated; it resists. sometimes, i feel, there's a very strong reason for that. simply it would degrade the art of it. you lose a lot in translating to, ahem, "coherence."
i can't help reacting to myself, the past, english classes, every part. i know it's comical, naive. (shrug)
maybe i've missed my professor's point
more later. how on earth did i ever get myself into an englist lit course? don't you know, don't you know what you're doing? the sweetest secret. the only intimate place, forever and has been, always there solely inside you, for you to keep, precious even. ugh. waving hands frantic, slipping inside. bed caves and heart pulsing. pulse worth.
and now you're going to willingly(?) go back to, go back to the forcible exposure of that to total strangers you don't yet care about? you're going to use it as something of obvious utility, not the sheen not the feathers not the perfect pleasure of reading for you? how odd.
i'm still not sure, myself.
more too. but not well articulated; dizzy, always. ...the notion that literature is inherently something that must be "difficult" or evasive...in one sense i could love that, i could love that. but in another, very loud one, i think that's a load of bullshit. leonard cohen's exaltation of common folksongs, you know. the personal, the daily, the mundane, the strikingly obvious, clear. to say that literature cannot have any instant gratification is perverse to me. not that the feelings and interactions with the words can't develop further--but to say there is no love at first read (and i don't mean "just" lust, though lust is pure and can be very good as it is daring to be, but also it can be a profound instant understanding, a homecoming honestly. really. that's why things are spasmred. duh.) is. a terrible, wrong thing.
and it's not just the mystery or "exoticness" of that first read, when things are cryptic and zinging all around you swimmingly like fish in your brain and oh that's lovely but what does it mean--stop and think, for a moment, please stop and think, about how it's possible that is a meaning, a meaning academia always seems to ignore.
speaking self, the brain running wires. electrovolt. vomit and fusion. sometimes it refuses to be translated; it resists. sometimes, i feel, there's a very strong reason for that. simply it would degrade the art of it. you lose a lot in translating to, ahem, "coherence."
i can't help reacting to myself, the past, english classes, every part. i know it's comical, naive. (shrug)
maybe i've missed my professor's point