On writing; or syphilitic fragments


One can only write in an attempt to write. For, writing comes to one—from somewhere else, everywhere else, anywhere else; often-times in spite of one self. Hence, even as all writing can only happen through the self, the self is—and can only be—the medium through which it occurs. The only thing that one can do is attempt to respond, attend to, the possibility of writing itself.

By being in front of a keyboard, by having a notebook on me. By reading. For, all craft is a form of mimesis; and often-times writing begins with reading something, anything. After-which I might be able to form a certain relationality between what is read and what is being written. But it is not as if every mimesis is writing. Even though there is no verifiable difference between a grammatically-correct sentence and a piece of writing, it is not as if one can know the difference until it is read.


Being open to possibilities means that I have concede that I am never in control of my thoughts, my writing. Sometimes whatever is written is strange, unfamiliar, other, to me—a fragment of me.

One can never quite control how it will be read: one can only write, read, and leave it to be read.


The only way that I can attend to the craft whilst attempting to be open to possibilities is to remain distracted. This mostly takes the form of having multiple conversations—virtually or otherwise. And these very conversations often open new relationalities that I was blind to.

The blindness in writing—of the reader, of meaning, of writing itself—is rather similar to that of love. Not divine love (which is always beyond us), nor erotic love (which seizes one completely), but philia; which comes from elsewhere, affects one, but also gives one the space to respond. Hence, friendships are crucial to my writing. Friends have an effect on you, can sometimes open a question in you, unveil a new register, perhaps inseminate a thought in you, might even infect you—my writing is syphilitic.


Socrates had a daemon that whispered into his ear; the Romans had a genius that struck them; I have a bottle of gin (ideally with a twist of lime).



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