31/07/2018

Quadrature, aphorism, Gawking ,yapping. Mollify, unwonted

Life not lived :
Flashes.
Guarded.shell
Superficial
Pretentious.

Submissive.

Ignorant/unaware/

State/mind/
Obsecurity/confusion of mind
Directness/simplicity
Shatter the fetters
Tranquillity of contemplative mind
Apparent good/bad may not be true as factors may be beyond
comprehension.
Human folly vs tragedy

Rusurgence of history,culture and authoritarian.

Most amazing transformation in human history.
Historical and cultural issues.
Not a single developed country was democratic at the time of Take OFF of
economic growth.
History ,culture and circumstances determine democratic culture.
Slavery, democracy, human rights not good at early stage.
Erudite audience.
Social groups coalsce around belief system…
Trust in absence of evidence.
Fossil as well as genetic evidence…Gene sequence.palaentology..
Random chance,,entropy.
Poetic metaphor for mystry.
Rationally intelligible universe.how do you account for..If universe is just
a freak accident or by design…
Cannabis , Marijuana legalised for recreational purpose.
Use of drugs responsibly.
Does prohibition work?
uali
travesty: absurdly linient sentence is travesty of justice.
Nitwit…fornicate….purgatort,cathartic
 31/07/2018
Why Write?
The Folly and the Failure
I’m trying to write. This means that I am thinking about writing,
talking about writing, dreaming about writing and, even, writing about
writing. I make tea, sharpen pencils, seek the clean legal pads. I make
lists, jot ideas, and dream the bones of story. Me and everyone else.
But I don’t write much, not really.
What is it about words on a page? Is it any different from the
endless chatter swirling around us every day? How I wish we all would
just shut up sometimes, myself included. How is raving on a page any
different? Perhaps because the page may endure. We need the future to
remember us, somehow.
But why?
There’s a whiff of narcissism in creativity, an arrogant need to fill
the wild with our own voices. Writers want to be heard — we all do, I
suppose, and we flail about in our noisy attempts at attention. I write to
connect, to join the conversation. I have a big, loud, opinionated family —
writing it down allows me to finish a thought and avoid the ready answers
of my audience.
Reading is my passion, my addiction. It offers escape and wonder
and teaches me how to be human, often makes me proud to be human. I
feel plugged in to the thread of consciousness, the pulse of humanity
when I read. I learn and, even if my waning brain can’t hold it all for long,
it’s satisfying to know about the young life of Marie Antoinette or the
mountain of pot shards in Rome — the birth of the concept of zero and
what the Australian outback smells like. Armchair traveler, historian,
scientist — the world awaits between the covers of a good book. Cliché,
but true.
And please please tell me stories. What is more soothing and
thrilling, all at once, than a story?
And so it has followed, as with so many delirious readers, that I
want to write. I’ve always wanted to write and have been happiest and
most alive when actively writing something that pleases me. Why, then, is
it so hard? If this thing makes me so happy, if I desire it so deeply, why
do I expertly distract myself from it every day?
 I promised myself that I would write each morning and here is what
I did today in my logical writing window: walked dogs, sorted piles of
clothes and papers, started laundry, washed dishes, read blogs, checked
and re-checked e-mail, ate (a lot, at intervals), made serial cups of tea,
recorded a tv show, took another walk, vacuumed, showered (because of
the walks and the vacuuming), tried to find the source of the odd smell in
the laundry room, planned dinner, got the mail, thumbed through a
catalog, wandered — you get the picture. At the moment, I’m seized with
the idea that, instead of writing this, I must clean the back back room
immediately (that’s not a typo — I really have a back back room, where
all the detritus of my life is pushed. It’s behind the back room, obviously).
I will do anything, even unpleasant, chore-type things, to avoid
writing. The very thing that I supposedly enjoy and desire so much.
I have ideas. I have half-baked, sloppy essays awaiting surgery. I’m
excited about the potential of some of them. But there is some unseen
force, a worm in my brain, that blocks my progress. It works in tandem
with the voice that whispers, “You’re not good enough.” And on the heels
of all this self-generated negativity comes the memory of all the rejection
I’ve faced when I have actually reached the finish line. Being a freelance
writer is like asking the universe to reject you, over and over again. An
uphill battle, all of it — and yet still I lay down at night imagining what I
will write next, having conversations with myself about what must make it
to the page.
Perhaps I’m just lazy. What must it mean that I can write an essay
about my inability to write? “Write what you know,” is the mantra of some
and I know plenty about inertia, blocks, and distraction techniques. The
books about writing all admonish, like Nike, “Just do it.” Ray Bradbury
said, “Just write every day of your life.” Okay. I should be able to do that
easily, breezily, happily because it is my life’s one true desire, to be a
writer. This desire should be inspiration enough, right?
And yet.
Enter the excuses and justifications.
I fashioned some of this in the shower and on my walk — tweaked
phrases while vacuuming and sorting laundry. All in my head, of course,
and some of that just falls out, never to be found again. But, perhaps
writing isn’t just putting your ass in a chair, as someone pointed out —
perhaps writing isn’t just writing. Much of what makes it to the page is,
for me and I imagine others as well, dreamed up while living.
 Eavesdropping dials me into the music of language. My daily walks
give me skies filled with birds and fields of seasonal color, road-kill and
impatient drivers. The news is fodder and the grocery carts of strangers
are a goldmine. Perhaps, for a writer, it’s all just exercise.
Perhaps, life itself is the inspiration.
Of course, ultimately a writer writes. There’s no way around the
definition. If all that exercise doesn’t result in something written, there’s
no writer. One must, after all, put one’s ass in the chair and write. Ideas
are nothing (or everything, I can’t decide).
Today I added one period — yes, only a period — to an essay.
That’s it. My ass was in the chair — is in the chair — and now I’m writing
this sentence.
And now, I’m off to make brownies.
31/07/2018