Writing outside of language...

It is difficult to ascertain the progress that I have made over the past three years. I have just finished a poem, have been working on finishing a novel that I am trying to illustrate, have been drawing together  strange narrative aspects between memory and dream, and have been trying to eclipse the total strangeness of language with music. It has been a long time since I thought of listening to or making music, or since I spent a few days caught in the tide of colour and mysteriousness of what other people have made. Since last January I felt that I needed to question everything, because the values that exist around me do not seem to be those that will last. I have been anticipating the moment wherein I will have to write past myself but dismantling memory in its entirety. Reading In Search of Lost Time was one way of pushing the spiral ourwards and trying to make sense of the world of time which I live within.

The consequence is that I have grown closer to the understanding that it is time itself, as we perceive it, which is the issue. It is self-reflection through strange language. Let me see if I can clarify. Further, let me see whether I can tear open a veritable gap in space and time, press the folds of language so that it is seen for what it is; simply a custom which we have all formed, which means only so much as we let it. It is not ours. It is a rigid form of expression with limitless possibility of expansion, yet it is still the same everywhere at root. If it were not filled with so many designations, if it were not made to be so rigid, then other expressions may evolve. It is not our language; it is a language.

And since I came here I have been wrought with almost loathing for the things that we do to try to contain ourselves. People at large have no perception of the nature of time, the nature of value, or the true nature of language because they have accepted it for what it has been given to us as; the truth is that we must cultivate it within ourselves. And this is an assumption, of course, but I believe it is a true one. Control. It is the simplest explanation for all that has happened which we consider evil. Does anybody ever imagine the necessity of war? Do people consider the depth of human frustration at the inability to communicate on understand, manifested inside a tendency of anger and unstable relationships. It is when we try hardest and most earnestly to control, to set our beliefs in frameworks, with specific traditions and language descriptions that we lose the natural tendency of man; to desire freedom, of space and expression.

Time is infinite for all that we know. We can delve into the past and daydream wildly in the present. The future is of no matter but we might travel their in imagination. And this tendency of ours to imagine in  the most uncontained and expressive way is what finally defeats even the limitations of our own language, our own currency, and our own traditions. Imagination is latent within everything; it is a sort of stepped-up motion. Chemicals collide and create new forms and we might reflect upon this, imagination being a duality of reflection and knowing. Imagination as potential that Rousseau talks of in his Discourse on Inequality. It is of infinite aspect yet we contain ourselves in narrow, restrictive language, even tether our emotions based on tradition which sometimes makes very little sense. This tendency never to consider ourselves as part of nature, the tendency to not think that nature would offer us the most suitable expressions for ourselves, that we are somewhat unlimited in our ability to destroy, amend, and, even better, create. 

It simply strikes me as a puzzle which we have invented unconsciously. It was pressed into motion through the enlightenment which sought to have better control over humanity, but it just offered certains frameworks which simply cannot continue. Value is still represented by gold held in reserve, language is still based on traditional, social values and, even if language did once represent the transcendental, it was long forgotten after the nineteenth century. Writers simply explain what the cave looks like with bare illumination now; read Milan Kundera or Gabriel Garcia Marquez and you shall find that the language is tinted with skepticism and the feeling that life certainly has been forced into an encryption or has been left far off, elsewhere.

Our values are dead. Or at least formally they are. One last attempt at revival, one more renaissance? I would rather not force such uncertainty. What must happen, is we must desist teaching values out of children, we must cast of the gold standard which has had consequences fo regrettable that to recount them you would see visibly the gold thread running from the dusk of the Maya down to the plight now of Spain. 

I am about to recount an entire story to you, but you will have to wait. It has been more than a month since I last properly wrote, and possibly since December that I wrote with enought clarity to say what I meant. What I mean to do here, is ground to a halt everything, even if it is just within myself. I am tired of the solipsis, the Cartesians, the scientists and the people who have lost the ability to dream. What they have forgotten is that the cause of life is not mechanical, though the dreamers now believe that to be true. We are just an effect, and our language, economy, ecology and selves begin to reach maximum density before they begin to fold back and wash away the deceit and the neglect...

 The reader will see what I mean when I am ready to write.