On one level, I see myself as a writer. I am constantly writing something – lists (for today, this week, this month, this year, sometime…), quotes, reflections, mood stuff. When it comes to real writing, though, I think about it too much. So much, in fact, that I think my way out of actually doing any.
So, what has been left unwritten? I have a list (of course) of topics that connect my thinking and my lived experience. I am veering towards personal essays, musings that reflect my day-to-day life, particularly as it relates to, and is informed by, my encounters with literature and the arts.
I have long dabbled in poetry. As a young teen, I won a national competition in Ireland. (Something about autumn leaves, I think. I wish I had kept a copy.) For many years thereafter, I saw myself as a poet. In relatively recent times, I completed a Masters in Creative Writing. My final dissertation focused on the theme of skin and the the poetry I created on the topic. Here are two poems from that time:
Dandruff
I am itching
to brush the white specks away,
to dust the dead skin from
the collar of your coat.
But I am a stranger.
You may not take kindly
to the caress of my hand
on your soft threads.
You may be angry, irritated,
inflamed.
Or merely surprised, bemused
by the feel of me,
intrigued by the intimacy of the gesture.
That touch, a risk,
born out of nothing more, nor less,
than kindness.
Tattoo
You said
I wouldn’t dare,
wouldn’t stick the pain
of scraping, piercing needles.
Forbidden art.
Grey lines
etched on translucent skin.
Wings poised
to take flight.
To break free.
Beak open,
olive branch on offer.
To make peace.
.
This dove
cannot escape.
My skin, its cage,
locked from the inside.
Captive art.
You said
‘don’t do it’.
And I did.
I have come to accept that I am no poet, and now happily enjoy the works of others rather than write poems myself (although I have not entirely ruled out dabbling in prose poetry).
At the beginning of her memoir Things I don’t Want To Know, Deborah Levy quotes Georges Perec:
“I know roughly speaking, how I became a writer. I don’t know precisely why. In order to exist, did I really need to line up words and sentences? In order to exist, was it enough for me to be the author of a few books?…One day I shall certainly have to start using words to uncover what is real, to uncover my reality.”
I see writing as a making sense, a way of interrupting circular and directionless thinking. Jung said that “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate” My words seem to come from some liminal interior space – where truth and reality jostle for position. Putting my words out there is an attempt to ease the tension within. Of course, I could just keep a diary. Which I almost consistently do, but sharing my words, writing with an intended reader is different. It speaks to the other, and gestures towards a witnessing, not merely of my words, but also of my existence.
Wittgenstein said that “All I know is what I have words for.” I get that. My thoughts and words seem inextricably connected, one leading to the other. This interconnectedness is echoed by Lydia Davis suggestion that “maybe the notebook is a place to practice not only writing but thinking.”
For me, writing is both a way to stop running and a way out of the liminal space. Why don’t I write? Stopping, standing still, can be challenging and threatening. And perhaps there is also an element of fear around what might lie beyond the exit sign.
Henrik Pontoppidan:
“But one day, we are stopped by a voice from the depths of our being, a ghostly voice that asks “who are you?” From then on, we hear no other question. From that moment, our own true self becomes the great Sphinx, whose riddle we try to solve.”
To consider the (probably unanswerable) question “who am I?” feels important. Henceforth, instead of endless circular thinking, I aim to break this closed loop and direct the flow from thinking to words to pencil to page.
“Pages are cavernous places, white at entrance, black in absorption.
Echo.
If I’m transformed by language, I am often
crouched in footnote or blazing in title.
Where in the body do I begin;”
from WHEREAS [“WHEREAS when offered…”]
CQ
Living through the Arts 