Roughly five years ago, I began experimenting with language. I was intent on writing a “long poem”, in the vein of Silliman’s the Alphabet. Undoubtedly, an ambitious effort on my part. But, dammit, my language was stilted and derivative. This had been done before, way back in the 1970’s. It was dated and stale. My poem was stagnant, immobile. I was trying desperately to inject some life into lifeless verbiage. This is what ( I know) was happening to the written word all over—despite what mainstream fantasists concluded: that literature was fine, and great books were being written all the time. You just had to look harder.
I have been looking, and what I have found, all over, is absolutely wanting. Nothing got me off. But I knew there had to be a way forward. Ergo, how do we become more radical in our approach to creating new narrative forms? Only by experimenting and making mistakes. Lots and lots of mistakes. My long poem was/is a glorious mistake. Indeed, my entire writing career, such as it is, was/is a glorious mistake. In fact, let me be frank–I have no discernible writing career to speak of. I am a nondescript, regular guy, with a nondescript, regular job, living in a nondescript, regular suburb, etc.,etc. Truth be told, I am part and parcel of that loser demographic our depraved elites and professionals have such great contempt for.
That, however, is the point, mes amies. It’s okay to be loser, a failure, a non-entity. This (whatever it is) is, and has been, an intellectual journey. For all of us. And if I (we) die without finding that missing link that will propel Art (again) into a new hallucinatory, orgasmic, celebratory (etc., etc., etc.) domain—I don’t really give a damn, and neither should you. It’s the journey that counts.