26 novembre
[26.xi.25.a : mercredi] C’est possible que quelque chose comme … un blog / un blague … quelque chose pour l’instant … éphémère. J’ai commencé écrire un blog il y a vingt-et-une années. Après plusieurs des années d’écrire whatever entered my head … n’importe quoi … je voulais … c’était un prise de conscience … j’aurais aimé écrire quelque chose différent, quelque chose comme un roman … un histoire … quelque chose que je voudrais lire des années plus tard. Mais peut-être, le blog était le forme parfait pour l’éphémère : quelque chose j’écris une fois et jamais lire encore. J’écris le blog pour moi-même, parce que j’ai besoin de mettre mes pensées avant de moi, si je peux la voir. Comme hier, mon humeur était un peu noir. Je me demande pourquoi … ??? Pourquoi est-ce que j’essaye trop de choses? Pourquoi est-ce que je ne peux pas écrire un livre à la fois? Pourquoi est-ce je me mis à un chose et commence quelque chose autre avant de terminé le premier chose? Et il y a toujours la question: pourquoi est-ce que j’écris ça? Je ne sais pas quoi, mais je sais que je dois écrire quelque chose … si seulement de faire moi-même plus calme.
As I wrote elsewhere … when Rachel & I were in Montréal last July, I asked a very simple question : would it really matter if I spent the next year doing nothing but mastering French? So what if I didn’t write my books for a year? In the grand scheme of things, what does it matter if a few crazy books aren’t written? My year of mastering French got out of the gate at a gallop, but when November came and I started writing NN25 (If around a dark star an orbiter) I began falling behind on my French studies. It’s only temporary, I told myself. While I’m writing NN25, the French will circle in a holding pattern … but for the last week, I’ve been having doubts about … well, everything. Questioning the worth of writing NN25 & the way I’m writing it … would it be better to just focus on the cut-up/fold-in, warp & weft procedures = the Kilbracken technique? But what if my practices don’t produce books worth reading? … I’ll never know until I’ve tried, right? I’ve even doubted my efforts to master French: you’re too old! you should have done this twenty years ago!
To keep me going, I cast around for new things ,, as an impetus, like a little hit of energy when I formulate a “new idea” (often just a rediscovered idea) and I say yes! I can do that! That’s the solution. A couple of weeks ago, I hit on the idea of writing about my addiction to self-sabotage (in the manner of the feminist writers I’ve been reading since July, mostly quebecois writers, writing in French, like Marie Darsigny … but also american writers writing in English like Michelle Tea). These writers write to deal with their addictions … usually of a chemical or sexual nature … my addiction is to writing itself and to modes and processes which ensure failure [at the very least : the disapproval of capital] … but what does failure mean? I tell myself that it doesn’t matter if … there’s always the specter of publication … if one writes, one publishes or one isn’t really a writer (not that I agree with that, but it seems that way … when I’m in my dark moods). But I’ve come up with a perfect solution! Capital is evil so I can’t publish my books because doing so would be (even without intending to) serving capital. So I write my luminous novels and put them under the proverbial bushel. Why not let them shine? Well, the tiny little crack in the bushel where some light leaks through is this space of literature … write.as … I write, I post, and in principle, my writing is out there, but not really since this space is more or less unfindable. No search engines are indexing this space of literature … news spreads by word of mouth only. #MyLuminousNovel
Now, I’m going to stop writing this and fire up my Burroughs 9001 and spew out some more “art text” … at this instant, the art text is the only thing I’m really sure of. I write it for myself and for strangers.