the wrench

as the fogginess on this peak begins to filter away and clarity paints bolder the vista, suggesting that doing another blog under the latest pseudonym doesn’t really accomplish much of anything significant; as this goes on I do get the clue which is a fucking heavy thing, that really the wrench is the subjectivity – or subjectivity is the wrench – what one means and what another thinks the one means – all from one word. Pick a word. Any word. Noun, adjective, verb. We think we can trust universal concreteness but I do believe that is a false belief.

I think something’s funny and another thinks it’s facile or crude or lowbrow or passe. I say this because of confronting the issue of how to describe what someone might experience once inside a den of things I loosely call poetics or call poetics loosely – tentatively – hesitatingly – which again lifts a finger pointing in the direction by now recognized as not just a land but a continent they call poetry; because a meaning is whatever it means to the reader, assuming one comes along, already lost in these woods; but hell, half of the stuff I broke into stanzas and lines and called epic or narrative began as shorts; can’t help but wonder (again) if the form really matters; or whether it’s Timmy or TH, because it’s all going to end up feeling the same anyway.

So the recurring novel dream pokes up a sleepy head and says yes that’s the idea or that’s the plan, it doesn’t matter where the thing goes because it all comes from the same place, which is probably poetic if only because I dig the little phenomenons that come along when playing with sound arrangements and rearrangements regardless of meaning clarity; not saying the results come out anything near stellar; but stellar to me relates to stardom and stardom would be a big pain in the butt.

As I as TH was saying over there at the TH blog, the energy expenditure would not be spent on any of these projects from a blog post to an ebook if there was no desire for a few readers – and if it’s poetics, especially from what I research in ebook-land, the readers will be few indeed – which was already understood when signing that dratted dotted line. And it won’t matter if a thing is called a collection of poems or a novella or novel. Still there’s the matter of description because it would be gentlemanly to present a clue or two to the happenstance wanderer lost in these woods, imagining the work is like a little shack they happen to notice and they can see a light in the window and they smell something cooking but want to know if they should enter or run when the door opens to invite them in, maybe stay the night. Or a couple nights.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in lamentation, no idea, poetry, ramble, self-publishing, thoughts, travails and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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