Start no more new books, add no more new material to a ‘Work In Progress.’
Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!
When you can’t create you can work.
Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.
Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.
Discard the Program when you feel like it—but go back to it next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.
Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.
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ིྀ 𓎟ᛝ𓎟𓎟 † 𓎟𓎟ᛝ𓎟 ྀི
You've stumbled upon the forest of Deep Purple. Stroll further into the wood?
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*
I was letting blood electric;
My veins coursed electric.*
╰─..★.──────────╯
ྀི
Between what I believe to be happening and what is actually going on, my mind is left star strewn, smooth as wine, and rosy as peach. Stretches of subconscious swing and sway as far as the eye can see, at an expanse where even the mere thought of one’s life span allows the heart to remain in stillness, at a break with its hummingbird beat. That is the goal anyhow, “to be held in the soft arms of the atmosphere”, as Emerson says so in The Oversoul.
The horizon of listlessness that has traced over my minds eye I am now able to make out clearly as an everlasting fog whose thick mist had been back drafting away my life force black, et alia, my will to live. I had at one point believed that this thick mist was beginning to clear and that I could move on with my life, though now I see that the light at the end of the tunnel was a mirage I had needed to simply start getting used to.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
My progress of writing this book lay eons before me and was now at risk of being lost to the sands of time. I wanted to quit and throw my machine out the window and give up. Long behind me are the days where at one point I had thought of myself as an actualized and bonafide writer. There are even moments when I think to myself that I will only be considered an artist long after my death, my drawers and manuscripts finding themselves poured into the streets and discovered by some lunatic, or unkempt passerby, or schoolteacher willing to pass them off as their own.
And yet - I knew that deep in my heart that I was as paramount and elemental an artist today as I was ever going to be. Though still I felt as though I was a fraud, a crook, an impersonator, lifting phrases and transcribing pages of quotes in my notebooks just to see what the hands of Homer must have felt like as he stroked out line after genius line. All men who repeat a line of William Shakespeare are William Shakespeare! says Borges.
It is nearly impossible for truly great writing to exist anymore because there has become a severe lack of great people to write for. The sense of a higher purpose and/or power is lacking, and unfettered honesty is simply not permitted to exist. Simply put: Mentulam ede, pathice indocte!
Such as things are, and yet still we continue mucking about amongst a world that revolves around tearing things apart and making them worse. One must not simply give birth to a child. They have to rip it out of there, mangle it, eject it with a saline solution, and throw it into the microwave. One must not simply get an education and then a job. They have to earn favor from a bunch of closeted faggots in suits, tow the party line, and have heaven fall over backwards just so they can feel like they accomplished something. What do you write to a world like that? "Fuck you!”
