Sackcloth

A sackcloth, and within this sackcloth, darkness. Yes well, darkness - what else... but if we could see into this darkness, what else besides the darkness? instead of this darkness rather. Most likely, assuming something - and assuming something we must for if we assumed nothing then we wouldn't be seeing anything besides — we'd see coal. Coal is the object one is most likely to see in a sackcloth, besides or instead of darkness.

But black coal amidst a background of darkness — would we really be able to see this coal? But it doesn't have to be all impenterable darkness, does it? But if one could see it, the coal, would it really be worth seeing? But that's not a question you can go asking yourself. Imagine yourself engaged in ordinary everyday life — if you can imagine such a thing, it shouldn't be too difficult — and this fool peering over your shoulder, asking whether it's really worth seeing whatever it is you happen to be seeing at the time; providing a critical overview, an ironic commentary on the worthiness or not of all the seeing. Maybe you don't find it so hard to imagine.

But coal so: that's what you'd most likely be seeing in a sackcloth - if you could see it, if it was there to see and you weren't prevented by the darkness. If it wasn't there to see, it wouldn't matter about the darkness. And in any case, seeing is enough to be getting on with without worrying about whether it's worth seeing or not... worth seeing if it can be seen; worth seeing if it can't... You could keep yourself going an awful long time with those kind of questions. Those kind of questions and more: Is it even worth knowing it's worth seeing? How am I to know it's worth knowing it's worth seeing? - What a question.

This I see is going nowhere, or worse, it is going somewhere and the somewhere is synonymous with the going; but going isn't staying still, it's progressing, and so while it is yes going somewhere, and at any given moment that somewhere is inseparable from the going — the somewhere you've been going is precisely where you are — but even so you are still going beyond where you are and deeper into and towards and beyond somewhere else. But if you stop going there, what happens then?

You set up camp. “I'm stopping going. I'm happy with here. Yes, if I kept going that somewhere I'd be passing through would certainly be better than here, but still you can't spend all your life going… or maybe you can, but you have to stop sometime, or if not necessarily stop, you can hardly be blamed for the stopping — out of exhaustion, for a rest. Not everyone, only the very few, can keep going and going.
"And so here's good enough for me - for a while or forever, whatever. I can't be blamed. I've gone far enough. I'll pace some boundaries, make myself comfortable."
If you're going to stop somewhere, or stop going somewhere, you might as well make yourself comfortable while you're at it. It would it hardly be better, would it, to make yourself uncomfortable while you're at it?


I started off with a sackcloth and darkness and I've ended up here, however it happened. Would it have been better to have stuck with the sackcloth and the darkness? No, you have to go somewhere and so I got to here. But here is where this, if not me, stops.

Chekhov & Carver

The book of Chekhov short stories I am dipping into contains the high recommendation at the back by Raymond Carver that Chekhov is "the greatest short story writer who has ever lived", thus helpfully distinguishing Chekhov from all the great short story writers who haven't ever lived.

Coin

There was a coin worth a good bit of money - was a good bit of money. But then they changed the currency and it was worthless.

Vantage Point

They spoke of life as though it were something distinct from themselves, something they would observe from a critical distance. And so what could it be, this imaginary vantage point, but the beginning and end of their wisdom.

And You

"And you didn't like it, no?"
"No, I thought it was shit."
"Really, really. In what sense?"
"In the undiluted sense."

Space, Blank, Uninterrupted

Space, blank, uninterrupted, but then a fissure, a crack, a corridor, and down it you’re walking. So a corridor and doors, lots of doors. Open any one you choose. You might be told to get out, you might be asked to come in, you might even be told come in. But just like this – in these clothes? Yes, you’re fine as you are, or if not quite fine as you are, you’ll do. You’ll have to do. So come in as you are, for how else could you come in but as you are? Well, you could try letting on to be not as you are, to be someone else, someone fictitious, an imaginary creation, a composite of other characters, their best traits, unified in this being who walks in the door. And so in you walk - who could fail to be impressed?

So we’ll say you’re accepted as you are, this character – that is you’re accepted as you appear to be. You could hardly expect to be accepted as you don’t appear to be.
But how long do you think you could keep this going, this performance? Indefinitely? Noone knows a contrary to the appearance so why not? But mightn’t it be a bit easier, less demanding, if you hadn’t decided to unify the best traits? The only way from such a height is down. Perhaps you could instead unify the worst traits…but who would want to share a room with such a composite except maybe other similar composites? What a room! If someone who wasn’t such a character walked in what would they do to him? I’d advise him to get out quick. Take one look, mutter something about the wrong room, apologise and go.
But the chances of finding yourself in such a room are slim, and anyway, even if such a room with such a set of inmates does possibly lie at the other end of one of the doors, that’s hardly a reason to remain out there forever in the corridor.

Grand Tome

Here’s another grand tome produced, presented, placed proudly but sternly on the publisher's desk. It creaks under the weight. Another vital part of the oeuvre. I present it to the world, all fifty million fucking words of it. May the world prove itself worthy.
Fifty million - an exaggeration. Perhaps only half a million, or even less again. But anyway, either way, such credible characters, such distillations. But are we really so lacking in credible characters that another few microscopically examined bores are some invaluable addition to our lives? Perhaps if one reads enough credible characters one might become one oneself. That might be what it's all about. Either that or the sheer volume of words has a beneficial effect.
“Ah but it’s not just the sheer volume of words. It’s the order he places them in.”
Yes, there is that. But imagine if someone was to lift up this book, a manuscript rather, the spine held in the hand, and the hand gives it a good shake and down tumble all the words, shaken loose from the hundreds of pages. Imagine the effort re-assembling them.
“My God, what’s happened to my manuscript?!”
“Don’t worry about your manuscript. Your manuscript’s fine. It’s the words that were in it that’s the problem. They’re all over the place. Can you remember what order they were in?”
The author, the great man- accept that it’s a man - is dumbfounded. “The order…the order…” he mumbles. “No, no…I could never remember the precise order. At least I think not. Some sections are embedded, yes here,” pointing to the heart. “No here,” - the head. “But this was the final draft. The only one.”
Final draft? It seems all these words have been whittled down. Revised and refined. Again and again. He’s written out this whole thing several times – without killing himself! It’s amazing what man can endure.

Put To Bed

Don't see a whole lot of point in writing more stuff here so this may be the last post, not to say however that this will necessarily be the case, which is also not to say that there will be necessarily be anyone to read the announcement in the first place, in which case this could be said to be an exercise in superfluity.