I started typing this post with the intention of writing in the vein of Blake Butler, Tao Lin, Brandon Scott Gorrell, Prathna Lor, Kendra Grant Malone, and others.
I enjoy reading their blog posts and their comments on other blogs, and now that I am trying to figure out what makes them work by writing one I find that I do not believe myself. Maybe that is because I know that I am being a poseur. I am imitating.
I heard that our contemporary artform is the collage. Reinvention. Regurgitation.
I always feel like I am out of touch, but then I feel like I don't really care. People are annoying who have to make a point of letting you know just how in touch they are with everything.
Something about writing a complete sentence feels wholesome and filling, like eating food you know is good for you, and thinking about it being good for you while you eat it.
Sometimes I write sentence fragments.
I like realism, surrealism, absurdism, magical realism. I like many different modes of fiction. I also use a lot of philosophical language, not really to show off because it is irritating trying to figure out what someone means especially when in the end they don't mean anything, but because my mind moves that way. I think that is part of being out of touch with the everyday, the concrete.
The world of idea stimulates me more than the world where I get out of bed late, feed the dog, drive to work, drive home after eight hours, eat, and think about writing or reading or fixing something in the house but get nothing done in the end. That world frustrates me.
I have to translate my thoughts twice: once from ether to abstract, and then from abstract to concrete. I don't know, maybe everyone does that.
My contact with the ordinary everyday has a hard skin. My everyday is repetitive and boring and numbing. Talking about the weather or the economy with people is an empty exchange. It is going through the motions. My concrete everyday is the form of exchange in which nothing is exchanged.
I read the bit about the form of exhange today in Blachot's The Space of Literature, where he likens empty exchange to poetic language. Or vice versa. So maybe that is something.