on neurobureaucratism (tough times, tough blogs)

if you’ve read the last week of blog entries, you’ve noticed the shift from a more essayistic, classically “public” blog style to a denser, rougher investigative one. the later arises out of a sense of struggle, a commitment to blogging bouncing up against my confusion, and that makes for a sense of “a lack of things to say” and i was writing out of that. its an interesting space, no? that i-want-to-write-i-have-to-write-i-ought-to-write matrix spinning round, and then, the drive is so intense alongside an often overloaded, hectic, uneven in its own right stretch of life, that, honestly (or even deceptively) what do we write? what can we? i always have somewhere in my head that writing is libratory, that it frees up, but it also enslaves – or can. the dark, tortured loner loser geek arrogant soul is as much a part of this path as is the bright, grounded, bounding, smiling giver-of-life bit.

i can sense many drives in my writing, in my desire to write, and in my mental monologues around writing (yes, they are the same schizoid dialogues which are really monologues cuz we play all the parts you have, simply with complete different particularities). the two i want to bring out now is the domineering, hectoring drill sergeant, who is ever commanding me to drop and give him 100 lines. that guy really beats me up. he has a film critic type on his right, who is always looking over his shoulder, whispering asides about the faults of the work, its pathetic and bathetic ambitions and follicles, a whole double whammy when i give these two schizoid-bits the stage.

ironically, the more control they exert – the more i feel pushed to write from this place of discipline, resolve, determination, macho grit – a place of law and order and a hard, paternal morality (where failure always looms), the less work i do, and the more whiny, cornered, sniveling, and snotty it is. and completely, overwhelmingly, narrowly self-involved, fighting out its resistance and surrender to this paired paternal bully/critic drive.

the passion, dexterity, freedom, possibility and desire, just basic, joyous/mourning/responsive desire to work and play with words, that barely ever raises its head above the weight of suffering and infighting that marks the “paired paternal” mode. this work, although sometimes marked by a very sentimental, excessive softness ( i am thinking of amoebas and slime molds here, entities fine in their own right, but whose lack of boundaries in a non-watery environment guarantee extinction) allows a confidence, politics, sexuality, expressiveness and attention to language the other mode is constantly censoring/ignoring.

the trick is to (there’s no trick) wake up in either spot – cornered, tired, and alone, or surrounded by friends, flowers, whiskey, and a good flick. man, i am pounding this into the ground. please help me not be overwhelmingly dualistic about this (above) distinction.