glorycloud's Diaryland Diary

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my life as writer means

"As far as noting "what my work and my life as writer means"-how shall I speak of that? As I compose, I think sometimes of the lovely and yet terrifying phenomena of all the world's immense waterfalls, gigantic gales from the four corners of the earth carrying in their gritty teeth chunks of rough-hewn farmers' tables and beloved credenzas, dust and excreta from Iowa barns, the sweet simplicity of the voices of both Cohens and Kellys, laughter from gay, come-what-may places, girls with braces (glistening with their tears) on youthful teeth. . . how to speak of these things? How to speak of what the tiny, yet handsome vase from Java, the dew-touched day's eye trembling in it, means to me? Of a half-frozen sparrow, beak worrying a Carnation condensed-mil-can wrapper? Of the masculine rhythms of Dosoevski's anger and comedy and compassion? Of the memory of the memory of first love? How. . .? How can one explain what it means to think continually of those who were truly great? Of the rough expertise of the air-conditioner repairman? Of American cities, wrapped in local mystery-Natchez and Mobile, Memphis and St. Joe: raw towns that we believe and die in? Of The Last Supper and the wine on the table on that evening of mystery? How is it possible to articulate the surging emotions felt watching children in the playground, running, playing , gleeful on their divine seesaws? The images crowd together, mix with the emotions, judgment is suspended, one is drunk as one is drunk on wine. and laughter. One writes ceaselessly, one writes-everything. The notebooks fill, the black ink of the recording pen sets down the rhythm of life itself, rich nuggets of symbol, image, both clear and mysterious, deep, lie buried, waiting for the moment when they will be rescued from their temporary home. Meaning is held in an almost unbearable tension on the dizzying edge of the meaningless, and there! There lies the quicksilvery truth that makes one's life as a writer meaningful and endlessly rich. The wearisome hours of staring at the white paper, the lonely white paper, the clock ticking inexorably on-all of it is worth it as the haunting image of the emotion is wrenched free from the mulchy notebooks and transformed into sheerest beauty! But how does one explain. . .? To recast one's chaotic life as purest art-that is the program. That is what my life and work "mean." One would like to achieve full expression of one's inchoate and sinewy self. In one's self, in the dark shed of the untameable mind, lies the truth, waiting to be released into the line, the sentence, the story or novel. I strive for it continually" pg. 46,47 'Mulligan Stew' A Novel by Gilbert Sorrentino

8:03 p.m. - 2022-09-05

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