writing about writing
When I write for this project, Ex Movere, it is always with presto, always with an eye to the moment and the language of the feeling, always in single sitting, always an idea given birth, and then I sit with it, I hold it in my hands and I read it over, and I never change it.
I don’t write unless I’m inspired, and I don’t write unless I feel what I have to say might be, in some form, inspiring.
I once told someone that I borrow my words like I borrow my thoughts; I design nothing, I write from outside myself, I let ideas come and go and I try to play host and entertainer to them as best I can. I try to anticipate what they desire, and provide it without their asking of me. In this way I see my travellers safe passage and a chance at respite, and in this way I am rewarded with their company and conversation.
Unfortunately, all the writing I’ve done in this last week will never see itself found on Ex Movere. I’ve come to a point where *I* finally have something that needs saying, something to express, something personal and from within, and sadly, something indescribable – and so this artist has finally been forced to take up his brush and paint.
The process of letterwriting is one foreign to me; as I say, my relationship with words is one of symbiosis and friendship – they are there when I need them, and I’m there for them too, as such I’m a no loss whenever for words, and I’m never left without something to say.
But to write *this* letter, to *this* woman… words are not enough. The process has exhausted me, I write to her not with exhuberance but with solemnity. Truth rarely wears a smile, for truth feels neither good nor bad about it’s facts or outcomes.
I am trying to be better than my words, for her. For someone who no longer has to try much at all at anything, I am so grateful for my failures here, and yet, so wretched to have failed at a task so necessary to succeed at.
And so I write, and I write, and I have found where my ‘Delete’ key is, and I craft, and whittle, and add and subtract, and I paraphrase and then elaborate, and in the end, I think I’ve painted.. me.
I hope she can bear the reflection. Dum spiro, spero – again.
~ Driz
but what to do in time of writing, when heart knows feeling and brains can”t find right words?
is possible to find all you want to get about different words of the same meaning in a one big book of words???
so, such are mine problems
have a fun life,
hope
I laugh through all your posts, but not derisively, more out of overload. Although, it’s wonderful. Stretches.
“Some mock me out of fear, and others laugh to relieve their own anxiety. Laugh, laugh, laugh, I speak to alleviate. Others too speak from that same place. They fear also, the compassionate more so, but they accept it and deem it more important to tell what they see. That person who doesn’t fear others’ unedited honesty is an idiot or enlightened.”
I’m glad you continue to stop by.
~ Driz