Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Tweeting Rehab

I've been on a tweeting spree recently, for want of a better way to procrastinate and to attempt to keep a record of my general (more or less interesting) thoughts. Its nice, its concise, you dont have to deal with a million comments on your status, dumb notifications and all the other bullshit that comes with Facebook. But seeing that I have a penchant for writing mental essays and being unremittingly anal about phrasing sentences nicely, I do find the concision pretty frustrating (along with the fact that, in order to fit the whole thought into a tweet, Im forced to resort to this retarded shorthand consisting of "would"s turning into "wud"s and -th's being reduced to -d's, something that does spark a slight pang of guilt every time, of course this is nothing compared to the feeling I imagine I would get when being presented with the very same tweets ten years down the line..

So yeah. That whole paragraph just to say that I'm trying to ease off twitter a bit and come back into the blogosphere, where I have the ability to expand freely without a stupid word limitation. That red minus number is a taunting brick wall to my intellect. Or maybe thats why I like twitter so much, because I'm lazy. Certainly painting one sentence pictures is an art for which twitter is an adequate canvas, and I like it because I can keep track of random thoughts and track down the lines along which I was thinking (in fact I realise I don't use it for social interactions but rather for this purpose). But theres no need for expansion.

I've had the writing itch, as of recently. I miss it alot. This whole year has been a writing drought, I'd even go so far as to say a literary one (finished Lolita recently, Nabokov, what pulchritude). And yes, I've gone through the whole writers' dilemna of not knowing specifically what to write, wanting not to write for the sake of writing but for it to have meaning (Nietzsche. Schopenhauer. Faust. Goethe. MEANING, I say!), and writing shitty poems about boring subjects ("write a poem about the following words: night. your father. love. spring". pretentiously crafted. ingurgitate clichés. regurgitate. continue poetic bulimia until you come up with something that ends up in your literary toilet bowl the next day). But I've also been reading Visions of Cody; Although Kerouacs' style is plain fucking annoying to read at first (no full stops for lines and lines on end and it sounds like he's presenting you with a thorough description of the scene where you expect something to actually happen, like in all the other books, there's a plot right? NO. STRAW MAN. PLAY CANCELLED TONIGHT.) but then you get used to his half written American postcards. There's  something so loose. It doesn't even need to make sense. You don't have to remember every single detail, the name of the road, so and so's name, what town you're in. No. You're free. Freewheeling in Kerouac's conscience. Borrowing his eyeballs, throwing away your own. Sentences, words, flow through pages and pages to paint pictures of little ingredients of everyday life in the bubbling melting pot of the beats...(Peyote!).

A blog is somewhere where I can do that. The reason I didnt blog that often before was because I spent a million years thinking about all the wording in everything I posted. This is freeform. This is something coming directly out of my mind. Sure there's the odd bits and bobs I backspace, rephrase. But I need to learn to care a bit less to achieve a bit more. Get it. Not quite free association (tried that as well. no comment. ) but freeflowing thought, like the beats only without the acid, frisco jams and Jim collapsing on stage. And maybe somewhere, something will come out of it. Dont think too much, just write and let it go I guess. See what happens yar.

So here's to excercising near withered away writing muscles.
This may sound like bullshit 3 years, months, weeks, days down the line but at least its being spewed out through an expanded rectum with Kerouac and Nabokov as enemas.
And hey,
Retrospect is always gonna be a bitch.

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