Friday, September 3, 2010

the eternal above the transitory

I started listening to the audiobook of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins and I'm out of my mind loving it. Today I was driving while listening to it and a scene actually made me start crying. Not a few tears leaking out of my eyes but full on breath-catching, chest-heaving bawling. I almost had to pull over and I fogged up my sunglasses at once. Great, great story. I'm happy that it's the first book in a trilogy. I've heard a lot about this book and remember reading about it when it first came out but it sounded like an emotionally difficult book to get in to. (I confess: sometimes I need to cheat on my intelligence and read something trashy like a romance novel. I read a great article recently about why women read romance novels and I've been engaged in a long conversation for months with a friend about the reading habits of women; lots of thoughts for another blog entry one day.) The premise of The Hunger Games is creepy as all fuck and that alone turned me off at first but, I'm in it and love it.

In a bit of writing dead spot these days. I've had a couple of poems in me I've tried to get out but they fall flat on the page. I've been trying to get a short story shaped but I get stuck, even though I know exactly what want to write. I was again looking at writing from ten years ago. I'm a better writer now but I'm not as brave as I used to be. I don't take the risks on the page anymore. I don't know why. I don't know what I'm afraid of; they're only words on paper, right? Ugh. I feel as if each year that goes by some of the fire is extinguished by something, I don't know what. Maybe cumulative disappointments, lack of faith, or just that sometimes I don't even know why I write. But I do. And I try. That's what makes the difference in the end. I can't even imagine not trying because at the end of the day I love writing. I don't care if I get published, I don't care if anyone reads what I write, I fucking love the act of it. I have to remind myself of that.

I've chosen to take on a lot more solitude. I don't see it as negative, though often it can be lonely. I'm spending a lot of time in long silences. I go back to the Rilke passage I transcribed in June and it makes more and more sense. ...artists: poets or painters, composers or architects, fundamentally lonely spirits who, in turning to Nature, put the eternal above the transitory, that which is most profoundly based on law above that which is fundamentally ephemeral, and who, since they cannot persuade Nature to concern herself with then, see their task to be the understanding of Nature, so that they may take their place somewhere in her great design.

I Wanna Be Adored
The Raveonettes


Estolano in San Diego said...

Every time I see you post a quote from Rilke, I'm tempted to buy a book of his. (Maybe today I'll finally do it!)

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Poets and painters, composers, architects, basically solitary spirits, turning to nature, being the eternal beyond the ephemeral, which is the deepest law based on that which is inherently ephemeral, and since they can not convince the nature and is concerned to see their work.

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A writer, poet and painter have amazing power to create new thing. They represent in such a way that everyone want to see, hear and attract toward their creativity.

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This is most significantly depending on law above that which is generally ephemeral, and who, since they cannot influence Characteristics to dilemma. The inward law depending on that which is naturally ephemeral, and since they can not influence the dynamics and is worried to see their operate.

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The idea of The Starvation Games is weird as all screw and that alone flipped me off. These cannot influence Characteristics to dilemma herself with then, see their endeavor to be the comprehension of Nature.