Spacy. It is a word that was often used to describe me in my youth. Well, it is no accident I am a writer... spaciness is a symptom of taking time to think things through at deeper levels, to filter actions through levels of perception. It has rewards that the socially motivated and inclined cannot begin to fathom, though there is always the danger of falling into the trap of isolation.
The thing is, and I think it takes a patient, observant type to understand this: spaciness is not antisocial or impractical––it is rather a buffer. It safeguards the delivery mechanism of dreamlike threads of original creation. The bean counters are welcome to flesh in the sinews and they always will, because that is where the money lies. The hack writers are welcome to use words in the service of clarity, throwaway and redundant.
Through obscurity, one man's veritas. The only reason I can think of to strive for recognition (beyond a few hardy readers) is that, scraping to make a living each day, resources available for the creative work are stunted.
I have not written any new Cowachunga for quite a few days, for the reason that I am still working through possibilities for the next scene. It is easy to spot forced, habitual writing–– it does not sing on the page, it does not contain layers. A lot of readers prefer the straightforward, linear––the same way people gravitate toward certain politicians who simplify a world that is by its nature sticky, complex.
I will not lie––this Trump fervor scares me and it also enthralls me––it is like watching the payoff of those years of Teaheadism, the flowering of conspiracy-driven fears. It is not only the conservatives' fault: there was a virulent scorched-earth political correctness from the 1990s on that nominally elevated the disenfranchised, but really elevated mediocrity. It sent the unfairly judged and scapegoated running for the hills.*
I am fascinated by Trump in the same way that one reads about the Nazis from a distance.** One wonders in retrospect how so many were fooled, how people dug themselves into such an entrenched position of fervor over know-nothing pronouncements––and the very real minion-enacted terror that followed.
Now I am not saying Trump is like this––he has not had his world view shaped in the trenches of WWI and in a situation of severe economic deprivation––but he has the characteristics of a leader who can make boneheads do very bad things. Charismatically defining the "good guys" and the "bad guys" with an unconscionably broad cloth.
* Maybe academia has always been such?
** I am currently muddling my way through Philip Kerr's dispiriting WWII thriller Field Grey. Hundreds of miles from a book store, ebook resistant––still on the HSRRP (hostel semi-random reading plan). I will say that Kerr is no Erskine Childer, not even a Alistair MacLean.
The thing is, and I think it takes a patient, observant type to understand this: spaciness is not antisocial or impractical––it is rather a buffer. It safeguards the delivery mechanism of dreamlike threads of original creation. The bean counters are welcome to flesh in the sinews and they always will, because that is where the money lies. The hack writers are welcome to use words in the service of clarity, throwaway and redundant.
Through obscurity, one man's veritas. The only reason I can think of to strive for recognition (beyond a few hardy readers) is that, scraping to make a living each day, resources available for the creative work are stunted.
I have not written any new Cowachunga for quite a few days, for the reason that I am still working through possibilities for the next scene. It is easy to spot forced, habitual writing–– it does not sing on the page, it does not contain layers. A lot of readers prefer the straightforward, linear––the same way people gravitate toward certain politicians who simplify a world that is by its nature sticky, complex.
I will not lie––this Trump fervor scares me and it also enthralls me––it is like watching the payoff of those years of Teaheadism, the flowering of conspiracy-driven fears. It is not only the conservatives' fault: there was a virulent scorched-earth political correctness from the 1990s on that nominally elevated the disenfranchised, but really elevated mediocrity. It sent the unfairly judged and scapegoated running for the hills.*
I am fascinated by Trump in the same way that one reads about the Nazis from a distance.** One wonders in retrospect how so many were fooled, how people dug themselves into such an entrenched position of fervor over know-nothing pronouncements––and the very real minion-enacted terror that followed.
Now I am not saying Trump is like this––he has not had his world view shaped in the trenches of WWI and in a situation of severe economic deprivation––but he has the characteristics of a leader who can make boneheads do very bad things. Charismatically defining the "good guys" and the "bad guys" with an unconscionably broad cloth.
* Maybe academia has always been such?
** I am currently muddling my way through Philip Kerr's dispiriting WWII thriller Field Grey. Hundreds of miles from a book store, ebook resistant––still on the HSRRP (hostel semi-random reading plan). I will say that Kerr is no Erskine Childer, not even a Alistair MacLean.
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