Wednesday, March 14, 2007

I stopped, but the world kept turning. And I didn't mind at all.

I'm looking for rhythm when I write,
I'm looking for enjoyment in the craft, not content,
If I have to say something that's on my mind to achieve my aim of writing to write, then I guess it can appear that I am a little...tortured.
But I'm not.
I just wanted to write about the feeling of having a hole that shouldn't be, and how when in your heart is one thing, out your mouth or hands comes another.
It's funny what that inspires, and it's funny how many people have used the word, save, when it comes to me.
I'm just as emotional and human as everyone else, no less no more, and I fuck up, dust myself off, keep livin', keep tryin', lose friends, make friends, get naked, make with the woop, have one too many, have none at all...it's all quite banal in a way, and that's where the attraction comes in making things intense.
I'm sitting in front of a list of 100 top Australian Blogs, and they're all interesting and sharp in their way, but it's funny how none of them are looking to write as an art form.
It's the information that's important, and that's a sad indictment on technology's raping of a timeless craft. Yesterday, in a board meeting with Executive Computer Geeks, I discussed the need to talk about books. They said, books are gay, who needs books? We have all the information we need at our fingertips. God, I could have cried. Who needs art when we have TV. Who needs slow cooked Veal Ragu when Maggi sell it in a can. Who needs books? Who needs the rows and rows of colours and smells and hardbacks and paperbacks and the tactile sensation, and the different typefaces and large print and small print and blurbs on the back and dust jackets and who needs that perfectly cute girl who works in Brunswick St Books who smiles when I buy books that she loves and who takes me by the hand and leads me to a shelf and says, this one changed my life and so I buy it and it sits beside my bed, unread, who needs the hassle in the modern age? God, I do. I do.

I weep for the world and remember a bon fire I once danced naked around in a paddock on a beautiful farm. I laugh at the irony of saying all this here, within the beast, the ever growing, change the world beast.

And if I make a stand against this future, I'm so readily dismissed by people who speak a thousand miles an hour, and who know a million things, yet cherish none.

I miss the country. Sunsets and paddocks and trees and tracks and the smell of a fire that you can't get off your skin, or out of your hair. Musty corners, rusted tin, fresh bread, old cars, ancient trees, a rock you keep in your coin pocket, the wind that tells tales if only you take the time to listen, the emptiness, and the delicious loneliness, which is not lonely at all, but merely a hyper real perspective of your true place on this earth.

8 comments:

  1. I need books too. And art. And slow cooked veal ragu.

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  2. My favourite blogs are the ones that take writing seriously as an art form. I don't always want information, I can get that from the newspaper.
    This post made me want to cry, 'cause of the execs. I think people will always need books. The hard copy can never be replaced, no matter what the execs say. They've been wrong about a lot of things (remember 'vinyl's gonna disapear'? It just came back). Who says they're always right?

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  3. Yeah, they made me want to cry too. Especially because I just finished this AMAZINGLY beautiful book, Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson, which is so human and so real and so fucking gorgeous. And these guys were deadly fucking serious and it was all I could do to not scream at them in horror.

    I know you guys are out there, like me, I just needed to vomit it out.

    hehe.

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  4. i need books too. above the ragu i'm afraid, and above pretty much everything else.

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  5. Hehe, books ARE best.

    Next, Elizabeth Ackerman / The Giant's House.

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  6. There's always a pressing need for quality, isn't there? I like to think so. And that need reassures me that the world isn't ready for the hand-basket quite yet. You give good book.

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  7. I met a boy this last weekend. A boy from the country. He seldom spoke and when he did, he spoke slowly. Carefully. And he told stories that were rich and rare. He was like a book that was being written as I watched and listened.

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