Författare: xikano_2

Light through the windows
Air by the night
A single breeze swooshes the silver green curtains
My skin gets goose bumps
I sip a drink of life
as my eyes slowly close down its eyelids
I whiff the currents of passion running like wild horses through my veins
Naked as I am I leave my soul to return to my flesh

The nascent grass
From the window of an Iron Horse,
gives life through the windows of my soul.
I get nourished
by the infrared light
that decides like the many colors the sun gives to a rainbow
how I see the world

Literature for me is one of those things that nearly compel me to continue writing, except that every time I feel the compulsion I realize I don’t have what it takes. Or at the very least ’am not ready’ mantra envelops any hope of or attempt at writing. Am practicing for God knows what. I used to half jokingly tell me that I continue to write so that at the very least I learn how to write a good letter, but there is an unconscious impulse at works here, I am headed to ’somewhere’ it’s just that I won’t know until I get there. I think that am barely getting the ropes or hang of the writing craftsmanship, and therefore need more time, but more time for what?

I don’t like to believe it but more and more am leaning towards it: am not 20 anymore thus I can’t write poetry with that energy that seems to permeate other peoples work. I know that am wrong, and its an excuse to attribute my failed attempts at this ancient art, I just can’t seem to juggle it well. I’m not loosing hope though, there is something about poetry that I want, I want to wrangle images with language.

Today I came across some info about the way Chinese Americans have to adapt their writing methods to fit those of America and I must say I liked what I read. It turns out that Chinese culture doesn’t allow for the writer to logically give away the story as we are want to here in the West, no, no, it’s not allowed at all, the writer is to make the reader think and, get a load of this, no two readers shall have the same interpretation of said work. The writers task is then to force the reader to be an active partaker of the story. Quite fascinating stuff coming from the East I tell you …

The windows are dirty;
doors whose hinges are rusty;
crackling wood eaten by termites;
The sun eating away at the paint;
My feet are not as might as I thought.

The windows are dirty;
doors whose hinges are rusty;
crackling wood eaten by termites;
The sun eating away at the paint;
Today I woke up and my head was not as might as I thought.

Behind our eyelids
We long
Strange worlds
Uncommon to none

Let it be us
you and I
Who lift lids
Of those to come
Welcome them within
wake their ids

Wake up say !
Ache
Partake, undertake
Assert yourself !

I don’t understand how is it possible to explain that literature has many manifestations but only one way to teach it. I read and read that this technique does this and that for this effect and that outcome. I can see that hence I can learn it. I am totally contrarian to the idea of stripping art of its unconscious aspects and turn it into a mechanized tool to be toyed with. One thing was to learn that authors that I considered nearly God-like because of what they wrote to be nothing more than artisans who knew how to use a tool and hence far removed from what I would deem demi-gods of the mortal world. This was a devastating truth that I wasn’t ready to see yet I saw it. I understand it yet there is a resistance within me to believe that texts that I have enjoyed have been nothing more than Aristolean tricks to move me into pathos. There must be something called pure art, I don’t know where it is but if they say that imitation is the highest form of flattery then I will probably end up doing so as well, how tragic and dreadful it is to live in a world devoid of higher entities, realizing that the only entities we have are those very same ones we construct to believe in.

One of the biggest coups then acted upon humanity was religion making us believe that there is something else out there, we were taken away the right to deify the wooden god, an earthly being for a fantasy-like-being that doesn’t even exist, alas! At least we knew that wood was something tangible.

On the other hand, if the stream of consciousness within literature is to reflect real life then I suppose it is not entirely wrong to use said to tools to manipulate outcomes and produce effects. Real life then is a daily construction of our selves and the tricks we use to make us feel more better about ourselves. This off course, brings a disturbing question beforehand: how conscious are we then of our real lives …?

Ok, so today we nailed the last nail in the CW writing course, and the coffin is slowly going down in the history grounds. I talked to some of the other students about the success of the shop, and pretty much everyone, (about three people) were rather content, to use sophisticated language, with the outcome. It seems people out there really enjoyed the course, off course they were all girls, so I don’t know how biased the opinions were. Most of the Swedish girls seem to treat the teachers as rock stars and as Swedish standards go the real shit really doesn’t start coming out until the grades roll out. Well, suffice to say, our last CW shop brought good healthy advice from a novelist who seems to know the ropes. Lots of tips and the tip of the hat goes out for Jon for allowing this dude to come in and dish out some of his Via Dolorosa experience through the muck that the publishing businesses seem to be reeling in.

Today we close our Creative Writing course. A course that promised to be exciting turned out to be very strange because we were pretty much left to our own devices, sweden is strange in that way, social contacts acquire a near pathological stress whereby contact is akin to confronting your worst fears face to face. Much of the course I spent talking to (few/some/counted with the fingers of my hand) classmates via the internet yet even there the dialogue in the internet is void and empty as much as the real world would be, as it were Sweden is one of those places where conversation is in the primitive stages and they tend to prefer silence for fear of looking dumb. Strange world, I never really end up understanding any of them. Although they seem to master the muscles in their face to convey all kinds of sardonic expressions and to put down people that way, weird, I never in my life thought that a country puts so much utilitarian value to simple words or daily conversations. No wonder they are so stiff.