Underwear is like bondage, so constricting, yet also capable of bringing one to the present, if only to remind the body that it is here, being squeezed beyond a reasonable doubt. A hair suit of sorts in terms of constant physical irritation. Why start with something so ridiculous? Because it has just been tugged at, bringing things into the present. I am supposed to be writing without stopping, no corrections, just letting it out. And here I am erasing things like "underwear" and "waistband" and "tug".
Someone wrote today of the steps needed to peel an orange as a way to practice mindfulness. (This unceasing typing is difficult, not in that I don't know what to type but in that I don't know what to type first, what to leave out and what to put in.) I loved her description of finding just the right soft part of the peel that must be located before one can put one's finger into it and start to remove the rind. I immediately imagined the soft spray from it, the way the juice catches the light so you can see it before you smell it, as if the speed of light were not only faster than the speed of sound but also of smell. And I am already correcting things here, changing words, backspacing like crazy. Back to the steps of peeling an orange. After the peel came off, I was not as interested. Maybe in the sections and separating them but not in the description of the taste, except for it being sweet and possibly a little tart. The contradictions. I love the contradictions and the light coming through each piece as it's removed from the whole. But she didn't talk about the light - I saw it while she described the taste and then she went on to describe the way she felt it in her mouth and then her tonsils, which she noted she still had, and how it eventually moved down into her throat and possibly her stomach. But I was barely listening to that because, well, frankly, I did not want to imagine those things, they were way too intimate for me. And really I didn't want to go with her there because I don't want to eat an orange that way but maybe if I wanted to be mindful I would. I was more interested in the light and how it caught and illuminated from within each segment as it emerged from its cocoon of the whole fruit, now shed of its skin.
I am cheating. I have just reread what I wrote above. It is all true but it's not untouched like freshly fallen snow. It's been trammelled a bit and plowed into drifts. It may be suffering from a bout of slush. I will try to manufacture more flakes. Apparently identical ones can now be created. I read (I just erased again!) recently that a technology scientist invented a way to create identical snowflakes. Why, I ask you? Why is that even necessary? Just to see if it were possible? It's like cloning sheep. Or pets. There must be some inherent quality that isn't exactly the same, we just can't see it. I would venture to guess that the snowflake doesn't want it to be seen. It wants to keep some of the mystery to itself. Maybe that's why they melt when you get close enough to study them. There are so many wacky thoughts going through my mind right now. How does one even put those on paper without sounding like a whackjob? Like for instance, do I think snowflakes are alive? Yes, I do, in a sense, but not like you or I are alive, but in their own way that is like a rock is alive or a planet or an unknown part of the universe. But that all sounds so woo woo as Denise would say. Oops just edited myself again.
Here is a new snowfall of words. Does correcting spelling count as cheating? I am going to say no. Oops, just backspaced. I am thinking about what I want to say, which is part of my problem. I don't know exactly what I want to say. Sometimes that's because I think the things I want to say are banal, have already been said so many times over it's just incredibly boring and alarmingly selfish to record such cliches yet again. Oops just erased an entire line. Why else don't I know what to say? Because there is so much that hasn't been said! Or hasn't been heard maybe. For instance, the idea that someone, possibly like myself, although I'm not saying this is a given, is longing to say something real, something so moving it brings tears to the reader, to the witness, tears not only of wonder, of understanding, but of laughter and hilarity. Would they be laughing at said author? Possibly. How ironic would that be since said author is very earnest. Earnestness is actually quite laughable, comedic actually. (more backspacing and overwriting just occurred) Which brings me to the idea that said author might at first be heart broken because authors are known to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Or should I just lump all artists (or "creatives" as they are now dubbed) into this circumstance? If an artist produces a creative thing that is met with uproarious laughter, does said artist crawl under a rock never to produce a creative thing again, especially if said artist was earnest enough to think said creative thing was not done in fun, ie said artist is not a comedian? What if said artist comes to realize from this reaction something else? (more backspacing)
Obvs I am trying to work something out here. Not sure what. See, this is what happens. I get stuck in a thought and then go round and round not sure how to emerge or complete a thought I started that seemed so compelling moments earlier. In that particular instance, I believe I was thinking something specific. I was texting with L and it occurred to me that an artist of this nature, while they believed their goal was to create something mind-blowing, actually was seeking something else that they weren't "mindful" of just yet. That the story of getting to this true goal is their journey which includes a fair amount of sublime ridiculousness or the ridiculous sublime. And their true goal is what? Finding out that they are not alone in wanting to make the world better for everyone. While they were being so hibernated in their quest for blowing minds, they missed how connected they are to other people who also want to make the world better. This seems interesting yet, complicated. I'm thinking this artist, in their absurd egotistical way thought they were alone in their exalted pursuit but it turns out they are not alone at all, but in good company. And this feeling of not being alienated is very empowering. Not just to the artist but to all those people they have encountered on their sublime ridiculous journey, people who have felt and are feeling the weight of their aloneness in wanting to make things better.
And now I read this over yet again and I am like, omg, this is so stupid sounding. And all I can think about is I must cover my tracks, I must erase this blather. But of course I can't because it's my writing exercise and I promised L I would do this even though I've cheated time and time again. What if I do a call back, as in take something I've already mentioned above and make it reappear here to tie everything together and make it whole, make it make sense which is ridiculous and sublime because it's a random, stream of consciousness thinking (mildly edited) that doesn't make much sense to begin with. Well, if that's the case, then I can take a little bit of liberty and cause a virtual avalanche and cover this drivel up completely. That's metaphorical for turning this blog's settings to private.
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