To Writing Anew (first letter)


Unintended poeticism and the ubiquity of metaphor show up like bad weather.  I stare anxiously out the window, through my reflection, trying to lock out a sense of impasse from the inside.  Cloud shadows drift across my thoughts (and yes, as maudlin as it may seem, over my heart too).  I pretend to know which way the wind blows.  With the start of each not sent letter, I wonder if everything, in actuality, has always-already been written.  I continue on, in part to postpone dwelling on the possibility.
I want to know where you are when profundity gets lost in cliché (again), as ecstatic encounters with the infinite are thwarted by pretense. Frustration and doubt form in flash storms of amateurism, panic, ambition, generalist enthusiasms and whatever poverty necessitates.  Accountability, standards, craft and the like are somewhere else, seemingly unattainable.  Mounting abstractions induce headaches, like sudden changes in elevation.  Those caught in the open, exposed to these elements (myself included), can seem nearest to genuinely feeling something, anything, about whatever they’re trying to write down, but the right words don’t arrive.  Articulations of singularity are absent — and yet the idea of you still feels so close.
I don’t need to tell you about anything fleetingly grasped through something else (and only in theory), every something else requiring something else in turn, displacement appearing endless, meaning and crisis as synonyms. It’s been more than fifty years since the conceptualization of différance, and yet the uses and abuses of radical equivocation are everywhere, knowingly and unwittingly entrenching the lie of a rational culture (that key societal falsehood so loathed by the old avant-gardes of Modernity).
I write in spurts, between breaks in an arduous search for you.  I write before taking shelter in profession or the cultivation of taste.  I feel alive while I’m doing it – wondrous even — despite my complaints.
Thank you.