5. Found Document / A Revisionary Post
Call me reclusive; but do not call me a recluse. The two terms are actually just extremes of one another. So it seems. Despite the fact I could hide away in my office for most of the day doesn't mean I choose to hide away.
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Midday winter lunch. Angled sun in the eyes. The light from the kitchen windows slants across the face. Shifting an individual’s perception to a Cubist painting from the thirties. Contrasted perspectives of shadow and brightness. Caught between notebook paper with smudges of text and lunch. Warm sandwich: left over roastbeef with hot mustard, on toasted wheat, and slices of apples, the pale plate piled with fruit, with over-sweet pears.
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I have fallen into a silence these past two years or so, a period without proper writing practices, just casual scraps of poetry every so often, here and there. Higgedly-piggedly. My main focus has been centered on slash fanfictions, stories laced with dubious alternative timelines, re-knitted plots, and re-examined personalities to suit an individual's personal tastes. A wealth of colloquial expressions, obsessions. The low-end of the writing spectrum: dark alleys with standing water. Smut. Prose without purpose. Pure escapism. Warehouses with dim lighting. There is a benefit reading non-academic based material. Removes the restrictive fetters of proper, scholarly observations and paragraph development, allowing for a pure pathos defense, a libido-driven logic for evidence.
And I have gathered “legitimate” readings as well. Discovered by accident another Italo Calvino book: If on a Winter’s Night, A Traveler. A means of rebuilding, adding more into the labyrinthine library in my head. He collects alternatives. Random samples of possibilities for a novel. Not one main focused plot, but hundreds.
Midday winter lunch. Angled sun in the eyes. The light from the kitchen windows slants across the face. Shifting an individual’s perception to a Cubist painting from the thirties. Contrasted perspectives of shadow and brightness. Caught between notebook paper with smudges of text and lunch. Warm sandwich: left over roastbeef with hot mustard, on toasted wheat, and slices of apples, the pale plate piled with fruit, with over-sweet pears.
I have fallen into a silence these past two years or so, a period without proper writing practices, just casual scraps of poetry every so often, here and there. Higgedly-piggedly. My main focus has been centered on slash fanfictions, stories laced with dubious alternative timelines, re-knitted plots, and re-examined personalities to suit an individual's personal tastes. A wealth of colloquial expressions, obsessions. The low-end of the writing spectrum: dark alleys with standing water. Smut. Prose without purpose. Pure escapism. Warehouses with dim lighting. There is a benefit reading non-academic based material. Removes the restrictive fetters of proper, scholarly observations and paragraph development, allowing for a pure pathos defense, a libido-driven logic for evidence.
And I have gathered “legitimate” readings as well. Discovered by accident another Italo Calvino book: If on a Winter’s Night, A Traveler. A means of rebuilding, adding more into the labyrinthine library in my head. He collects alternatives. Random samples of possibilities for a novel. Not one main focused plot, but hundreds.
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