Of Ghost-Pressed Process

Words are urgent, some days, though quietly so. Time piles in and on, and words press against the edges of the writer. The issue, that is the disengorgement, is delivered — of course — because words won’t always so readily reveal their colours, their shapes, their species, their dimensions. All that settles is an insistent ghost, fat and heavy, engorged on the air of sitting still, collecting the dry dust that slowly fills and bloats the cursive dips of letters yet conceived. Yes, waiting is advisable, sometimes, but even a ghost will want to unfold its skin eventually. Out may come the weight of dust, just, or out may come matter more alchemical in regard. Often we’re too close to see the difference, or we’re shapeshifted into approximations of medieval piety: unable to discern if the illuminated script, held aloft before us in the god-awed bless’ed aisle, is merely reflecting light from golden inlays or if it’s radiating the brightness of divinity from deep within.

The ghost unfurls. It is necessary, else it might take up all the air in the room, suffocating and pressing the writer up against the walls. There is a film, seen many years ago, whose title and wider details are lost in the ether for now, where one scene transcends the others and continues to mark, even now: a character is hunched and weighed down throughout, but then, in the reveal, we see that really they carry the extra weight of a ghost. It’s taken as beautiful rather than sullen here, just as the press of words sits on the writer’s shoulders or at their side, slowly sucking up all the molecules and minutiae of days.

Words are all we have.

— Samuel Beckett

So, we let them unfold, as if we could try to stop them when they sigh. The ghost unravels its skin and there, then, seeps either the sanctity of light or the grey gradations of soil. It hardly matters because the day is written, the ghost has shed the thinnesses of all its layers, like a breathing onion wilting and wailing silently. Its flesh of days, and its entrails of coiled dust, thickly, loosely sludge the floor. There may be nuggets in the slush but writing, really, is just a process of breathing out again. We can breathe, as the ghost too — turned inside out — leaking, breathes.

Words . . . are minded things.

— William Gass

Here is the page: it is an imprint of our breath. There is a certain sanctimony in the assured knowledge that those who won’t write, can’t know such things. What can it matter at all? Precious, precocious us: we sit in our rooms of few sounds and careful light and only we and the remains of the ghost, twitching, can comprehend. The day is written and nothing matters of what the words are. The words are. This is all that matters. A salty reek begins to permeate, but it doesn’t always offend.

A writer lives in awe of words for they can be cruel or kind, and they can change their meanings right in front of you. They pick up flavours and odours like butter in a refrigerator.

— John Steinbeck

The ghost expires. Its final wheeze is a long, drawn-out plume that rattles with the gas of deep toxicity, violets and a density of sweetness. It sticks to the skin. The words are done, the bloated thing that was seeps down between the ragged cracks of floorboards. There is a film, a greasy layer on the wood. Little clots of blackened gristle, here and there, may reveal a tiny speck of gold within, pressed hard by the thumb and finger, as if holding a pen or pencil, carefully. We might put these pieces in a jar, for later, on a windowsill. For now, however, what was once the weight of a ghost that pressed us to the walls, waiting, sitting at our side or on our shoulders, is good and gone, released. What matters is not the matter left behind but the matter that it was.

The minuscule mass of a mote of dust, meanwhile, settles on the shoulder, as fresh as a new snowflake, hardly noticed at all, or yet.
 
 

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A Writer in Time: Multiplicity and Process

Art takes time. As painters can keep and harbour many canvasses in a state of benign neglect for years, so too of course can writers have many pieces scattered along the skirtings of the walls and laid out upon the easels of the mind. All are pieces in the decadence of recline. Or, in the swirl of metaphors, a twist to something else, a writer’s spawnings can be restless, though they sit and brood. Others are gathered in the dusty corners, misanthropes mired in the cobwebs of darkened notebook pages. They peer out sullenly and silently, on being rediscovered in their aged reverie.

Are the very many scraps, vignettes, cut-and-discardeds, notes on ideas, first drafts, drafts set adrift, beached drafts and dead drafts, workings and weavings, the bonsai’d and the brutalised, the retouched and the dust-heavy, the waiting and the slowly breathing all slivers of the artist as was? Perhaps we can trace a route through time and times, processes of thinking and relating, seeing and reading and the myriad affectors of any given period of any given colour or lightness or cloudedness.

Art takes time. A brief paddle in the stream of others’ ideas and research offers up the ten years of writing of Junot Diaz; the daily painting and repainting of a mural by the street artist, Blu; Christian Marclay’s three year labour of editing thousands of film clips (Hagen, undated).

In Norway, ‘[Artist] Katie Anderson has planted 100 saplings,’ writes Jason Farago (2015).

. . . they will grow for 100 years, and then be chopped down, pulped and turned into books. Not just any books, either. These books are to be written over the coming century, one per year, but may not be read until the trees come down and the books are published. Margaret Atwood is contributing the first book for 2015, but you’ll have to live another 99 years if you want to read it.

Anderson’s Future Library is a 100-year artwork: a vision of the future that will only be fully visible long after our deaths.

As our books grow, so too do we; as we grow, so too do they. If we come to be embarrassed by our background workings of our outpourings, should we sink them in the depths of our notes or the caves of our screens, or should we embrace them as us, an us that has been? If there’s no accounting for taste, is there no accounting too for quality? Though each reader has their own cliché, has their own poison of particularity, and though much mud must be thrown in order for some of it to stick, there are far too many offerings of thin and greyness masquerading as mastery of words. Much of it, really, in truth, is the content of others’ caves.

Maybe all our darkened things should reside in darkened spaces, though loved as us there. We have many. We work on them daily, weekly, monthly or hardly at all. Yet, they persist, weakly or insistently. Some day, they may spawn their tawdry others who, in turn, may bring forth more who evolve into creatures of the day. All our offerings can only ever be a process of the now (though the now has absorbed the flavours of all that has been); we can only ever be a process of the now; some day, the now will shift.

All our offerings, all our slivers of the self, are necessary. Da Vinci, Picasso, Michelangelo all, no doubt, had their pieces and their processes, their notes, their workings, their discarded and their left-to-broods. Even those whose art is more in keeping with the modesty of human scale, those not of the higher echelons of a Michelangelo, especially those of such everydayness of art, have a multitude of themselves to nurture, to wait for, to leave in the corners of the dark: artists ever of becomingness.

Art takes time, as we do; we, and words, are myriad mirrors, slivers, fragments. We are immanent.

(Addendum: it is as if to prove a point, engineered by the universal play of synchronicity, when all the constituent elements of this electronic writing system malfunction, rendering inactivity for several hours, at the exact moment of attempting to deliver these words to the web. Art, and other powers, take time).
 
 
References:

Farago, J. (2015), Taking it slow: art that’s in it for the long haul. BBC Culture [Online]. Available from: http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20150107-can-this-art-bend-time (Accessed Mar 26, 2018).

Hagen, C. (undated), In praise of slow mastery: ten achievements that took time. 99u [Online]. Available from: http://99u.adobe.com/articles/7168/in-praise-of-slow-mastery-10-great-achievements-that-took-time (Accessed Mar 26, 2018).
 
 

On Body-Mind Feedback Loops: How is it That the Affect of Writing is?

Feelings have not been given the credit they deserve as motives, monitors, and negotiators of human cultural endeavours.

The idea, in essence, is that cultural activity began and remains deeply embedded in feeling.

— Damasio (2018)

How is it that the act of writing feels? That is, what is it that the ‘affect’ of writing is on the writer, this writer, you, the writer? There is a body-mind feedback loop, a phenomenological quality and an organic sensibility, to the kinaesthetic lived experience of somehow creating words on page or screen where, once, a short moment before, there were none. It is a magic transformation in multiple ways.

John Banville writes, in review of Antonio Damasio’s new book, The Strange Order of Things (Pantheon, 2018):

For [Damasio], as for Nietzsche, what the body feels is every bit as significant as what the mind thinks, and further, both functions are inextricably intertwined.

— Banville (2018)

On a cold winter day, with the hint of lightest rain in the air, I take a notebook out to cover within it the intermittent pencil markings of my observations: en plein air, in media res. It is the way to capture not just the words that may form but also the feel that shapes the words. There is a shiver in the pencil markings, I see, back in the warm. The shape and weight and thick- or thin-ness of the notebook affects: how it needs to be balanced if it’s portrait-aligned, if it does or doesn’t fit neatly in the palm — words pressed therein are directly connected to such factors and more: weight of page, colour, texture, the way the weather plays with all of these, and so forth.

When we write we consciously choose our media of expression. The pencil will have its fragility, its potential for mortality, its scrape or its smear. There are sensory extensions to these choices that we make. The pen will either scratch or roll, stick in the grease or flow through our consequent disregard for cursive connectedness of individual and collective letters. Our conscious cerebral selves, or our semi-thinking selves, will affect our near-future affected, body-feeling selves. There is a feedback loop at play.

When we touch our fingertips to the keyboard, lightly rest our fingerprints in the barely perceptible but entirely intuited dips at the centres of the individual little squares, press down, make a perfect sound, repeat, repeat, pick up speed, we feel the spring back, the push on and on, and words vibrate. On the magic of the flat screen, somewhere ineffably deeper, pixels that might as well be the size of bacteria form themselves into meaning. We see it all take shape and what is it that we feel?

How we feel isn’t about merely what we touch, or its extensions: it is what touches us, abstractly, distantly. This is how art works. At the National Gallery in London there is a painting by Paul Delaroche (The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, 1833). It is a huge work and on-screen versions don’t do it the proper justice. Standing beneath the depiction of the eponymous character, faltering as she does, being guided as she is, towards the block, floods me with a sense of awe, not so far removed — I suspect — from the anti-rationalist awe of the Romantics’ views and sweeps on nature.

The creation of art, the process and the standing back from what transpires, has this potential for abstract touch. How is it that we are, when we stand back and look on ourselves, into ourselves, when we have created? We may engage in the intellectual exercise, this is true, but there is mind and body at play on such occasions: how might we walk, see, sense, hold ourselves, stop and pause, feel in our nerves and weight of our limbs, after the writing is good and done? If we don’t write, if we haven’t written, we won’t know: you won’t know.

Ultimately, our body — in all its multifarious manner of messages — will connect to our consciousness, to our minds of electrical analysis and chemical fluidity, and we should pay attention: affect begets words begets affect begets words . . .

How is it that the affect of writing is? Writing is more than merely just the product of an art.
 
 
References:

Banville, J. (2018), The strange order of things by Antonio Damasio review — why feelings are the unstoppable force. The Guardian [Online]. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/feb/02/strange-order-of-things-antonio-damasio-review (Accessed Feb 4, 2018)

Damasio, A. (2018), The strange order of things. New York: Pantheon.
 
 

In Search of Astounding Grace

Simplicity is complexity with grace.

— from Without Shields (Nora Bateson, 2017)

Longshadows of mid-day lie quietly on the grass. They’re waiting. There might be words beneath or sodden into them. The city is small, chinking with the peripheral pebbling of sounds that no-one tall and would-be-mighty hears. ‘What’s that?’ says a girl of maybe three, in croaky asymmetric voice, wrapped up warm and close to the ground, where the distant ghost of a siren echoes around. Her mother listens and explains what might just have been lifted up to her. There are words and other quietnesses, which harbour them.

Listen, but see. The city is a tumble of static blocks. Words slide in the light, down the smooth clean walls, like fingers on prickled skin (and so, close up, there are secrets to be seen). There are angles we have known a thousand thousand times before, but not this time, this day, now. When we walk at the resonant speed of our thoughts, we are in tune with the shift-scape, delicate or dense: a river hisses over weirs, under the bridge and road, and words bubble and froth and disappear downstream. Earlier, beneath the thin-watered veneer of the unparked-in bay, beneath the red- and silver-leaf peel of road-signage, reflected under the winter white-blue sky, how deep down does the puddle go?

There are words in all the right places, waiting to be found.

Wisdom begins in wonder.

— Socrates

There are days when even light is heavy, when all we may breathe is dark, when words are all the tenebrous stuff of undergrowth, night forests, unlit tunnels, hospitals or hostels. There is no search to be had: beauty is another’s game. Yet, and yet, what lies invisible is always there, still, and still. What lies beneath, lies around, waiting to be found: it’s ‘finders, keepers’, this slow soluble swill of this play of the day, of this bringing home all the marvellous marble and agate of the sensible world.

The material of the world is not in the materialism of it all. There is no bottom line: the words go all the way down. Words hide in plain sight, in plainsong without the aid of strings, not because of duplicity, as the complicit narrow-hearted ‘leaders’ hide, but because their purpose is in the being looked for, found. The material depth of this world, and beyond, is in its quietness, even in its sounds, not in the illusions of its glare and noise.

Simplicity should not be identified with bareness.

— Felix Adler

Longshadows of mid-day lie quietly on the grass. They’re waiting. There are words here and around, on and within the sodden ground; in and within the distant sounds of siren streets; the blocks of buildings known and unknown; the shift of time and space, stirring rivers; the hidden secret depths of waters standing on the empty surfaces of roads.

Slow your step,
so the ground where you are
can be washed by your tears.

— from Close (These Are Not My Words: Rachel Holstead, 2013)

Somewhere, there are little lines of perfect words . . .