I find myself
I find myself reading your writings ever and anon, as if I am attempting to find relation, association, understanding and answers to what I feel about writing as a whole; perhaps answers to the most enigmatic and rueful questions.
I find myself marring my books with writings in lead – I like preserving writing in its most traditional form, the soft sounds of pencilled writing. I write, ad nauseum.
I find myself chancing upon those annotations of chicken scratches and marvel at the seeming importance of the syntax or metonymy I noticed. Something unusually painful or distinctly admirable once spoke to me in a way most compelling. Regrettably, its appeal now lost; an obliteration of sorts. I struggle to find new meanings, new purposes in the writing and to excavate every detail – from meter to the beginning letters of words, most innately as if these habits were duties to be done when reading. To reestablish the reveries of literay theories by Leavis; to be duly pensive because everything else is going on in a din, and reading seems to be the most salient sanity of all options. When all is seemingly accomplished, I write even more at the back of the book where blank pages usually lie — for ruminations that become alive in the mind! for ideas that are patented by transcription and not by anything else! for diction that I can learn and adopt in a way most fulfilling.
I wish I knew how to write when I was 12 so that I can remember those American memories yesteryear. I now only remember amber lights reduced to a stygian alley when walking alone, of the rosti that was too huge, of natives thinking I was from China because I was Asian.
I find myself watching English period dramas of qualities akin to casette tapes rather than indulging in Akutagawa’s first few pieces of gold. How absolutely fashionable both women and men were in the past, using language in a way most respectable with form. How characters spoke in such admirable eloquence!
There is but too much going on in the mind: of books and literary theories that are greatly enchanting, of characters in films I find wholly related to. Their disposition and everything else! Yes, John Davinier is charasmatic. But I desire like him not, for what good lies ahead of a man who is quixotic, and has luck brush him mere?