an attempt to fling myself into the deep, dark, temple lair

Hypnerotomachia Poliphili page,
originally uploaded by Rashomon.

I've been missing this place of writing lately. I've had the yearning to let my fingers flow, to let my mind ramble on as it so often does, to open up and share the things that are continually getting stored and buried inside of me. I blame it on the change, on my laziness, on my "falling into a routine". I blame it on being happy and content, and for the first time in a long time, being able to let my guard down and breathe a deep breath of New York grime.

As most of you know, I've begun working my new job, decidedly finished with school, moved to a new city, settled with a new boy (well not so new I suppose, it's been 2 New Year's now since we exchanged first glances), finally found a place for most everything in the apartment (there still remain a few boxes with stragglers searching for their place to be).

I wish I could say I miss my friends, I miss my old life, I miss something...but I don't. Although I am not beaming with joy yet (the noises and the mass amounts of people are taking time to grow accustomed to), I find myself not at all longing for any of the last five years in that place I could never really call home. I leave work now, today for example, with the thought and more importantly, the knowing, that there is someone waiting for me, ready to greet me with a smile, albeit from behind a laptop screen, but there nonetheless. There is a peace in my heart, and the hurt and wounds of years long since past are finally not even on the cusp of being remembered.

*pause*

I'm reading Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifiction"...I've merely begun to read Part One entitled "Sexus" but have already found a thousand gems that I find solace in:

"To write, I meditated, must be an act devoid of will. The word, like the deep ocean current, has to float to the surface of its own impulse. A child has no need to write, he is innocent. A man writes to throw off the poison which he has accumulated because of his false way of life. (Note to self: This remind me of a preview we just saw recently which said: New York is the place where people go to be forgiven...this resounded with me, especially while I continued to ponder whether I truly had moved here or not to do just that - be forgiven.) He (back to the writer) is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to innoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment. No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in. His inspiration is deflected at the source. If it is a world of truth, beauty and magic that he desires to create, why does he put millions of words between himself and the reality of that world? Why does he defer action - unless it be that, like other men, what he really desires is power, fame, success. 'Books are human actions in death,' said Balzac. Yet, having perceived the truth, he deliberately surrendered the angel to the demon which possessed him.

"A writer woos his public just as ignominously as a politician or any other mountebank; he loves to finger the great pulse, to prescribe like a physician, to win a place for himself, to be recognized as a force, to receive the full cup of adulation, even if it be deferred a thousand years. He doesn't want a new world which might be established immediately, because he knows it would never suit him. He wants an impossible world in which he is the uncrowned puppet-ruler dominated by forces utterly beyond his control. He is content to rule insiduously - in the fictive world of symbols - because the very thought of contact with rude and brutal realities frightens him. True, he has a greater grasp of reality than other men, but he makes no effort to impose that higher reality on the world by force of example. He is satisfied just to preach, to drag along in the wake of disasters and catastrophes, a death-croking prophet always without honor, always stoned, always shunned by those who, however unsuited for their tasks, are ready and willing to assume responsibility for the affairs of the world. The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of his imagination. The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain. The process of putting down words is equivalent to giving oneself a narcotic. Observing the growth of a book under his hands, the author swells with delusions of grandeur. 'I too am a conqueror - perhaps the greatest conqueror of all! My day is coming. I will enslave the world - by the magic of words...' Et cetera ad nauseum." (pages 17-18)


I am going to attempt to write everyday, from here on out, whether I have something "worthwhile" or not. I need to get back into my habits that I find a comfort for me, the writing, the drawing. I've been without a proper moleskine to draw in, and I've been without a proper mood to write in. I intend on finding the art store that sells my particular sketchbook, and to forget about trying to find something important to say. I intend to throw myself back into my imagined story life where reality makes itself real for me. I want to share my life of imagination with you so that you can tell me how silly I am, how real I am. The only way that truths or knowledge can become evident, are thru dialogue and conversation with another. And even the most enlightening conversations begin everyday with just a simple hello...In this manner of thinking, why do I continue to believe it necessary to confess some great discovery (i.e. "The world is round.")...

*pause again*

So anyhow, and anyways, here I am, just saying, "Hello."