With my own writing I just keep going within that threshold of flow that is one's revolving doors, gallery of mirrors, the gaps that exist among rational thoughts, the twilight zone which is consciousness in suspension.
I believe in contra(diction) and language deflowering. I get brain zaps when I read someone who reinvents grammar, who digresses in thought and rebels against the last sentence they've written, deconstructing it sideways, from its parallel paradoxical shape, when their punctuation and grammar is a world in itself. I give in to the dallying, pursuing, roaming and my own writing and feel the magnetic attraction to some atavic recall, reencounter.
I really feel that it is at that point that language hits emotion and memory and self, and then things, things! make some sense.
I am not scrupulous with form, sometimes I have to carry on without questioning, allowing that organic transition or precipice into something new and unknown to me, and I have to believe that it will bring the otherness in me, the uncharted territory of my own imagination.
I read and write in two languages, attemping to build bridges between, stretch them until they meet, or concur, often forgetting which is which, and possibly pollinating them, bastardising them.
My re-writing is suspect, not pruning for me is a real pleasure, a way to allow that thoroughbred its raw and brutish force, its ignition. Even the act of leaving the text as it imploded, at least for a while, frees me and motivates me to believe in my own flow, the unexplainable mystery of creative expression, the pain for natural breath, the expulsion of the umbilical chord and placenta to the burning oxygen outside.
I believe in contra(diction) and language deflowering. I get brain zaps when I read someone who reinvents grammar, who digresses in thought and rebels against the last sentence they've written, deconstructing it sideways, from its parallel paradoxical shape, when their punctuation and grammar is a world in itself. I give in to the dallying, pursuing, roaming and my own writing and feel the magnetic attraction to some atavic recall, reencounter.
I really feel that it is at that point that language hits emotion and memory and self, and then things, things! make some sense.
I am not scrupulous with form, sometimes I have to carry on without questioning, allowing that organic transition or precipice into something new and unknown to me, and I have to believe that it will bring the otherness in me, the uncharted territory of my own imagination.
I read and write in two languages, attemping to build bridges between, stretch them until they meet, or concur, often forgetting which is which, and possibly pollinating them, bastardising them.
My re-writing is suspect, not pruning for me is a real pleasure, a way to allow that thoroughbred its raw and brutish force, its ignition. Even the act of leaving the text as it imploded, at least for a while, frees me and motivates me to believe in my own flow, the unexplainable mystery of creative expression, the pain for natural breath, the expulsion of the umbilical chord and placenta to the burning oxygen outside.
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