I cannot be tired of repeating, Everything is connected,
everything is connected
. Having this been written
(for said is not an option)
, and that hopefully it'll stay as an underlayer to all that it is going to be written from this moment onwards, I shall now commence my musings
(brooding is such a serious word and i feel like i'd rather use a word that categorizes a way of insight more cynical than serious something more humorous. as if musing was gingernuts and brooding cheesecake)
.
Many years ago in conversation
(and something i still cling to)
I mentioned that I don't believe in inspiration, for that is a romantic concept from the eighteenth century onwards. I might even be tempted
(and because i have just started uttering these words i shall not only be tempted by i will succumb with all my wit to the temptation of saying something mildly salacious. oh such wonders in the word salacious)
to suggest that it was a way to lure women into the poet's, writer's sack.
I've been thinking about Pessoa
(fernando pessoa)
, whose book of disquiet has been my companion for the last month, amongst others. The book of disquiet is like a blog with no titles, no dates or hours, no explicit chronological identity, just random notes, a factless biography
(nonlinear as a journal or diary and yet with such a poignant narrative that it is of the blog rather than any other medium. i now intended to undertake that same experience a stylistic and psychological one. i need to hold sway the digital dominion and fixation of the very name disquiet. it is rightfully mine not only the idea but the name who acknowledges the intellectual reference)
. I my ideas to be mine regardless of others previously having had them. Should Stephen Dedalus be right? Was I right?
In the end
(not only the love you make is the love you take though that is quite true)
one can write and make it not public.