It's Good to Be Free

I've been tempted to begin blogging again for months, noticing my Facebook posts lengthening and being unable to fight that urge to share ideas that is the writer's vocation. A blog always allow for more thought, even editing, and yet it also is a space a writer must be careful with ~ don't expect anything too fancy here, as this counts to editors as published content so here is it's one and only 'home.'  I also dislike the pedantic vibe that Facebook can give off, as posts are foisted on 'friends' via the 'news feed' - my thoughts may have (some) value, but they are not news. Reading my blog is more of a choice and choices matter, as my title suggests. Freedom is about being able to make choices. I've chosen to leave Facebook in the past, because it's addictive. I don't like addiction - it is generally not a good thing. It also takes me away from the outdoor world of people and nature; I once left for three months. But, we live now in an age where we do know hundreds of people, to some degree or another, and how can we keep up with all of them individually? What solution do we have? There must be a better option. In the past, they would float away; is that not more beautiful and natural? Should we have all this extraneous knowledge? I don't know. I once resolved to quit at age 30. It seemed a juvenile 'place' - then, parents were on; older cousins; age barriers dissolved. Was it now rude to leave? Why is the manner of defriend-ing on Facebook so touchy while the gradual dissolving of friendships in real life  - actual unfriend-ing - seems to happen without a nod of acknowledgement? Choices, everyday, about what to think about. I want to think less about technology but its everywhere. I want to use technology to help me be more efficient so I can spend less time with it.   

A choice connected to published content: I recently rejected a submission to the forthcoming literary journal I've been hyping for months (it really will exist, quite soon) - because the author had already posted a complete PDF of the text on his website next to the word 'published' with a date. By my reckoning, and that of many  editors, to insert that somewhere else as original content is misleading, an outright lie and of little value. It's accessible elsewhere. I'm not producing an anthology of blogged material. The author exacerbated the problem by even declaring it published. 

I'm already enjoying the freedom of blogging, that sense my words are not stretching longer than they should, that I can keep typing and there's still plenty of white, white space ahead. Unlike some writers, I don't fear a blank page. I relish it. It's there for the taking; it's a gift; it's freedom. Structure, too, gives freedom to writers. In the past few years I've become far more attuned to visual and sound forms in relation to their power to communicate. I often draw what looks like a house, or a series of arrows and loops and dots, or a neighborhood, and fill in different ideas before I start, a big project. I pick the music I listen to depending on the pace I have in mind for the project: is it going to be moving quickly? Is it upbeat? Is this a melancholy narrative with winding, complex, oh, so, ever, ever, delightful paragraph length sentences? (The longer a sentence is, the more I love it. Students of composition: close your eyes to that. Be precise. Be concise. Nothing else. Breaths.) If I do not deliberately choose, the music seeps into the writing - this is interesting, too. I let it do its thing. Most of all, I've grown to love film more than ever, and to try to create imagery with words. Tonight I was at the Bronx Documentary Center, and I watched a man on screen who trailed off while speaking. He looked off to the side, and I thought, There's nothing he could say here that would come close to expressing what he is feeling. His face is what we need. In this way, I'm growing more humble about 'my' medium. It's always had its limits, but perhaps its very purpose is most appropriate for when we cannot be there to experience sensations in other forms. And this might be obvious to others not so verbally inclined. I'm not conceding entirely. Without his words first, we could misinterpret his face. But we can misinterpret anything, if we believe there is only one interpretation of art. Correct interpretations are for the realm of business - and even then they are fought and argued over. Any text is only completed by the reader. That's why I loved a quote I saw today saying that writing could not be done alone, in this way it is like a kiss. I would never think to associate writing and kissing, and this is a bit of a stretch - writing is always first done alone. But the quote made sense, and was sweet, and it's good to be free to make associations as you please. We've come full circle. 

To demonstrate my appreciation for all sensory pleasures, here's a song for you to start off the new season of blogging. I hope you'll comment or write as the blog strikes you, because I've got too many words of my own so I could always use the variety of someone else's.

in Stephen Elliott style, xoxoxo. (Stephen Elliott is the founder of The Rumpus; my workshop leader from Tin House last summer; and he writes (well, sometimes) daily emails to thousands of people and signs them xoxoxo; I have a bit of a dislike of xoxoxoxo because it seems to be insincere, this distribution arbitrarily of hugs and kisses; but of late I realize it's mostly in America that we don't greet each other with some physical gesture, even a relative stranger - a kiss on the cheek, or both - and my Brit friends always sign with an x. Be free, be sincere. Take my xo's as signs of my general good well for mankind, and a hug & kiss while I'm at it.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Or8TA6IPE-M

As always, I'll try to return to the theme of narratives of home, with the caveat that the mind is the ultimate home, so, I may stray, as in this introductory post.