Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the "Story So Far" Page above this and the "New Readers" tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Saturday, 21 April 2012

Our Voices That's All

I was challenged by something I read recently: my words count for nothing.  It reminded me of how some of my students react to my faraway-look-in-the-eye pontificating on how they are the future and stuff.  They get so much trite sounding of cliches that they must be forced to see the truth of it, and even then they often won't believe it.  Something about the concept of being the future is frightening.  Far better for them, it would appear, to believe the more comfortable lie: they will not change anything.  In believing the lie they perpetuate the present and console themselves that there was nothing that they could have done differently.

I disagree.

Ain't it the truth?
Words are powerful.  the ability to read and write, so common now in our societies, is being taken for granted and it shouldn't be.  All words are powerful, every mark a symbol of thought - carrying emotion from one person to another.  Spoken words are often more expressive, but rarely fully utilised, and language can often fail with the fundamentals - 90% of human communication is carried out on a physical level rather than through words - but the written word is capable of astonishing feats.

Furthermore, humans are not rational beings.  Sure, we can use rational thought very well, but it is something that has to be learned for we evolved to be emotional and irrational.  Our environment is best understood in entirely irrational terms.  The more rational we become the more we seek to dominate and exploit the world around us - be that in personal relationships or in our jobs or as a species.  As a consequence, though the written word can only ever have the effect that we want it to have it doesn't actually work that way.  The written word taps into that irrational part of ourselves and can pluck at strings of emotion without us realising it.

Words count for everything.

Most of what I write in this blog is actually for me, a rare thing, and as a consequence I often don't subject any of it to my internal editor.  Reality/Shifts was first written without trying to write it - it spilled from my pen whilst at a debate in which I was there only as a teacher.  My only internal editing of that as I wrote was to avoid sentences starting with pronouns or articles as much as possible.  The rest, the plot and the characters and the setting, was not planned and simply happened.  In that, I believe it to be my best work.  Not critical accalim wise, though it has garnered the most attention of anything I've ever published online, but in terms of how I regard it.
How my internal editor would look if they were a. corporeal
and b. in any way supportive.

This does not mean that what I write here is not believed or that I am not careful with what I record, just that I'm trying very hard to keep my edior away.  No, that's wrong, trying hard implies that I think about it and that would distort what is written here.  I don't think actively about it and, as a consequence, I repeat little bits of sentences - half remembered words and phrases pepper my prose like marshmallows in rocky road.  And, in that, it is probably me at my most honest and it is all in the written word.

My words are all I have.

Hammering out sentences and half-formed
paragraphs like so much pig iron.
But I am a dealer in words, a smith of the sentence, and thus am close to my own cliff face.  I don't mean to suggest that I am a 'Wordsmith' - genuine authors and people with more skills than I get to claim that title, I can aspire to it.  I am aware that I am more a hack - my writing the sum total of everything that I have read myself chewed up, mingled and spat at the page through the loudest typing in human history (there's only so long I can use the excuse that I learned on a typewriter, sooner or later my style has to be, well, my style).  I have no original ideas (a lecturer of mine once pointed out that there's only one of these per century, and it would be somewhat arrogant to believe that it was me that had it) and my trials and tirbulations are far from unique.

Close enough to what I'm trying to say.
It means I manipulate my sentences automatically, I obfusticate as standard.  I am so used to playing with meaning and hiding things in plain sight that it has become second-nature.  Things that I think are crystal clear are not and things I think obvious become hints when read by others.  I used to say, when in the disastrous relationship with my mad-ex, Toby, that I said what I meant but did not always mean everything I said.  I stand by that.  And when I look in the mirror, really look rather than just look, I do not see anything.  Where I should be there is an absence, a hole, a nothing.  I am not transparent, I am opaque, but there is... nothing where I should be.  Within that, nestling hard against the edges of the rational and objective world, there are words.

My words are all that counts.

You have no friends / you won't be missed / I'm here to tell you that you don't exist

No comments:

Post a Comment

All comments are welcome, I have a thicker skin virtually than I do in real life!