Balance Acting


My summer fellows training has ended, so I have no excuse now for not frequently tending to this here blog. I will try once again to achieve a consistent performance of post-a-days in order to meet Augustal National Blog Posting Month requirements. We shall see if I can maintain such discipline or not. There are some days when I just simply can’t find it within me to write something, knowing that it will be ridiculously trivial and demeaning once I sit down and take a good hard look at it at some later time and date. But I suppose what I need to bear in mind is that part of the very reason why I have been consistently writing–without any higher goals or objectives of being published or successful–since middle school has been to deny the prevalancy of some idea that good writing must be merely pristine, perfect, and pure. I seek, therefore, to embellish informal writing intended to be shared with my friends–now in this day and age termed “blogging”–with a certain status and depth of artfulnesses, of deliberateness, while still using it for the therapeutic, temporal, connective intention that informal communication is largely about. But let me set something straight here: I am not a “blogger”. I have been writing in this manner since long before the advent of web-blogs became a hot ticket item. I am a writer. I write so I can live. A blog just so happens to be a highly convenient mechanism to share my writings with the world.

It’s like the difference between a jogger and a runner. When you jog, you are running for exercise. When you run, you are running to live. If you don’t understand that distinction, then you are a jogger.

The distinction between informal and formal writing is not so very clear in any case anymore. The immediacy of the language of e-mails, text messaging, and twittering has led to a natural aversion in most people to any form of abstraction or strenuous embellishment. And who can blame them? I share the aversion to staid words that serve no function other than pompous self-preening. Yet I also enjoy the playfulness of well-stated formations of words. The power and impact of syntax and artfully employed synonyms cannot be understated. The formal language of academia can either be sucked dry of all marrow of life, a limp husk of signification, or when deployed consciously, a tactful display of power, ripe with meaning and revelation, a preacher’s sermon more than a professor’s tract.

I think there is a balance that I seek to achieve between the lines of formal and informal language, where I can enact an impactful immediacy that lingers just enough to make you want more. I’m not saying that I gain this regularly. But this is how I want to write. To punch you in the gullet like a wine or whiskey that you taste. Something coming from a deep barrel of thought and feeling, combined in one moment of rubber and road. From which the journey continues. A fragment that is tied together somehow with all the fragments that came before. Not quite complete in and of itself, but suggestive of what will come.

Because that’s how life is. It’s beautifully fraught with meaning, but it’s never quite the dramatic, slow motion, soundtracked scene that can be encapsulated in a frame. It slips and sloshes outside of trite definition. We can’t quite hold onto anything, and this is what is sorrowful and what is full of light. The spaces, the gaps between neurons. From which sparks fly. From which stars shine. From which sentences are strung and minds are momentarily breathless from recognition of the void that exists between hearts.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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