2.9.09
I put on my glasses, put a pillow behind my back. This screen is my virtual white sheet of paper. My mind whispers to my hand the spelling of the words. I write having the sense of the keyboard on the tip of my fingers. I write with both of my hands. My thought is being spelled down, I play it on this different piano. Why have I been feeling the need to get back to my pen and book? When do I have a better touch of my written down words, the words that are a part of me? Is it the temperature of the sheet of paper? Is it my handwriting that makes it more real, I mean more physical? Sometimes I would urgently write with my hands wet, the paper absorbed the drops, the ink would go dispersed in some free patterns, like a river or the rain. I would see my thought then change, quite out of hand. Then, I would stuff the paper into the special drawer. Is it the thought that what I wrote now has a place? It takes some place, it is this big, this small, it ages, it may be unreadable, someday it will be gone, not shaved on a hard disk's memory or deleted by a bygone flaw? Is it about duration? Is it about imperfection? What makes the printed version different, I wonder. Sometimes I would write with my eyes shut- that helped me hear myself clearlier, helped me concentrate. Is it about control? If I now place my hands a bit on the right, no meaning will be held in those distorted made languages. Is it about consciousness? Every now and then I now click and order 'save'. When I make a new word, it shines, it gets alone in its context. Is it about mistakes? Is it about my freedom? Is it about surprise?
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the ink would go dispersed in some free patterns, like a river or the rain. I would see my thought then change, quite out of hand..so alive words spania blepeis:)
I have drawers full of words, written when I was younger, when I needed to write. In my last journey i write again, with bare hands, with ink, with heart. It was different, it is more real. Probably will be lost in the same way, in a house change, in a mad cleaning attack...Only few words are there to be remembered. Those words are kept in ones heard.
ibb, maybe that's true, only a few.. Here, I was talking about the act of writing, the importance of the change of means, if any, just some thoughts put into the digital channel. I had an urge some time ago to empty the drawer and get rid of all the notebooks. So heavy. Who would have opened them again? So old. Who would move them from house to house? so untidy. I did throw them away, most of them - amongst which some pieces I had worked on for a long time (some theatrical dialogues back at the student age, torn out strips of paper with few words or little marks etc). I thought their importance was put into my practice. I am now this writer who you read, because of them. So embodied.
What did you do with them?
ninni, thank you
:)
whose the biggest among them. surely u think there are big poets. i like ur poems cause they happen to be here and yu are alive.
ninni, yes! there are and they are alive. Thank you.
..and in more i cannot explain them. thats so often the criteria for any poem. i feel its a pity in general inn information to not reach it ss target
feeling Is a terget
so much information... But it takes more than a giver to have a piece of communication, or of feeling as you put it. I am not saying there is always something to fing in poems, books etc. But you have to be and keep looking. Sometimes, you will invent some answers because of a word or a phrase before you. That's what I think.
I am not all that interested in "immortal" works. Some are really interesting, some are yet to be re-invented. No hurry.
sounds, mistakes and surprise.
you have to be and keep looking mmm. no sure..i stopped the books and found something bigger, my friend professor did the same (not completely). but a text is an easy way
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