Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Stream of Consciousness Writing is Hard, Easy, and Emotional

So i have a really hard time just letting myself loose in writing.

Sometimes its really hard to just go and go and go without catching myself and saying hey wtf don't write that. But sometimes I do it. It can be done.

But it seems difficult to not have some sort of contextual weight holding me back,

My day has always been a certain way and it seeps into my writing.

I just can never exist in a void.

And it doesn't really ever become clear to me what a stream of consciousness would be like. I suppose this is one right now

I'm not stopping. I won't even stop to put a period at the end of that last line.

I just hit enter every few lines or so and I don't stop.

Enter enter enter enter enter enter enter enter.

Didn't even cut and paste that. Just typed the word enter a bunch of times.

Let the song change and let myself and keep going.

I am working on such constructed writing these days. My society's implicit war essays are so constructed.

So elaborate.
They feel so complex and strange to me. I don't think anyone will read them, and especially not in the way I see them flowing.

Because frankly I see all of the chapters as building on one another. And I see them going in a really powerful direction.

But so what. It doesn't matter.

It is something I'm doing for myself. And it pleases me that I can just go BOOM HERE IT IS.

Or that I will be able to do that.

Lil Wayne. That is the song. What a spazz this guy seems to be.

Then I stopped to stretch.

Cause I went blank.

Then I got up and washed my hands. Sometimes my hands feel bad. Sometimes my fingers feel bad on the keys. So I wash them and it never seems to help.

But in the bathroom I was just like well what the hell. What is all this business about rawness. What is raw expression. How do words tap into the world of emotion. Words distort and express at the same time.

How do I put my emotions into words. Because I care about that.

Is fictional prose crafted carefully? How do novelists or story writers work to express themselves? Because it is sorta beyond me. I don't get fiction writing. I don't do it.

How to be real with words? Well whatever. That isn't the point. All these words are real.

But I'm not words. And that is the most important thing of all.

That is why identity can never be adequate. Identity is always words.

And I aint words, son.

I am definitely not words. But I try to make words into me.

I try to do it. Then I look at my writing and I say 'you don't know me'. Don't pretend.

And in some ways this comes back to context again. Just always being grounded in strange moments and in my strange body. Writing is not life.

Then my head exploded and I said I'm done here. I'm done with this particular post. I'm done following this river.

Because my mind isn't a river and I refuse to think of it in that way.

Perhaps the metaphor of the stream of consciousness is all wrong.

Maybe it is a network of consciousness. It sure as hell is not linear.

I sure as hell don't just follow clear patterns in my mind.

I have to work so hard to make my thought into lines.

Expansion and contraction. Mental expansion and contraction.

The universe does that too.

Maybe its a universe of thought.

Maybe my writing is like a spaceship that I can't predict where it will end up.

Something like that movie event horizon where the universe gets folded into two.

Perhaps writing just endlessly folds my mind and punctures different holes in it.

I move from place to place so quickly. My head is so blown these days. And I care.

But not enough to stop me. From doing anything. I'll do it all. I am ready to do it all. So ready to do it all. Just move and move.

These are not very interesting metaphors.

Frankly I'm responding to a comment about using weird metaphors.

How to write surreal fiction? Steve Erickson said he doesn't even know what he is writing most of the time.

Sometimes I am afraid of just following a stream of consciousness, or of writing the weirdest things I am capable of writing. I could write such weird things. Say such violent things, such strange things. Not because I want to be violent or weird, but because I can say those things.

It feels frustrating to not be able to think or say certain things.

What are the boundaries of inappropriate thought? Is there such a thing?

I certainly don't want to cause anyone any pain. I just want to be the most gentle spazz in the world. I want to tell everyone that I love them. And that is such bs to me. This universal love. While I feel lit. I love everyone. I don't want anyone to feel bad. But isn't it frustrating?

Isn't it frustrating to just wish that everything could be okay. Wouldn't it be nice if things were just okay? And the world is okay for me. My world is okay right now. But other people? Of course not. Some people's lives suck. Bad.

I should do more for those people. I think I act locally, some. And I think I think globally. But so what? It is hard, so very hard to feel like this empathy is worthwhile.

I'm frankly losing myself in this writing. I'm starting to run weird spirals where I'm frustrated and I'm happy and I want to love more.

I love quite a lot. And I just want this to be the clearest thing of all: I'm a lover.

I love loving and I love the idea of love. It is so important to be gentle, tactful, loving, kind. And people know this about me I think and hope.

I hope people know me as a loving person. But it can be hard. Interactions are hard, and I hope that love is something I can exude. Not super likely that this is the first thing people would say about me.

But who knows what anyone has to say about anyone anyways. Tough to know for sure.

But god I love to think about love. I just find love to be so much better than hate.

I find kindness to be so much better than meanness.

And I have my bad days. I struggle. I can be harsh. I will put my words to aggression if I need to.

So unfortunate. I don't want to be aggressive.

And god dammit it is so frustrating that so much of what I read about is war and violence. Pain and terrible things.

But hey, I'd rather be a 'realist', as stupid and arrogant as that sounds.

What else to call it? But isn't the world mostly painful? Doesn't life hurt a lot? I mean it is also great. But it hurts. It hurts.

But hey, no problem. Buddhism and Nihilism. Suffering is inevitable. Life is an illusion.

Lets do our best to ease suffering and to perceive reality as accurately as possible.

This is what a lot of my writing is about. Or I would (so arrogantly) like to think. I want to think that I want reality. That I want to know what is happening in the world.

That is why at the end of the day I HATE WORDS.

Because they aren't life. They aren't experience.

They take me further from it. Life is raw and words cook life. What a thing I keep coming back to.

I can feel myself spiraling up and down here. Love and pain love and pain love and pain love and pain love and pain and pain and love love love love love love love love love.

Life hurts and I love it. So there. That is probably the best conclusion to reach.

Because jesus christ I don't want to get older and hurt and hate.

I'm not afraid of getting older. I want to get older. But I don't want that aging to make me hate.

I don't want to become bitter or jaded. I want to remain gentle. I want to look at the worlds pain and not let it break me. But who knows if that can happen.

What stupid words. What a terrible sort of line to follow. This is strange.

At the beginning of this I wasn't sure if I could write a stream of consciousness at all. If I could let myself go.

And it turns out I've gotten quite emotional in this piece. And that is what I wanted. To let go and let myself just flail with words. As useless and nonsensical as that sounds.

I would smash it all if I could. Smash what? I don't even know.

It is just hard for me to manage my desire for love and affection with my understanding of life as an inherently painful thing.

And words. Get out of here, you words.

I repeat, I am not words.

Sometimes I unleash these strange series of sentences. These little rambles. And it tosses me up emotionally. This one sure as hell has. Something quite strange. I don't even remember what I wrote in this.

So don't think this is you. Don't think this is what it is like to be Riley. I don't care enough about words to think this is me. I aint words.

Maybe I'm emotions. But it turns out that is just a word too.

I'm not a spazz. I'm a lover. I'm not a fighter. I'm a lover.

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