May 7, 2002

• Given the limitlessness of human imagination, the sheer vastness of human consideration, the seemingly unbounded geometry of thought-space, it seems ridiculous that we’d create such a tiny linguistic pipeline of expressive means through which to communicate the richness of experience we wish to share, and, any 900-page novel (not to mention this run-on sentence) should be considered no less a constricting discipline than 5-7-5 haiku.
  
  And that’s always been my problem with writing. Reading bores me in the same way that talking to someone with a small vocabulary is tedious. As an example, imagine you’re stuck listening to a stoned hippie talk about interconnectedness. He thinks you don’t get it, but you do. You were there when it was all created, you’re a god, you’re an enlightened zen master, and this stoned hippie is telling you that you’re interconnected with everything. Reading bores me that way; it’s a constant exercise in compassion.
  
  Language is like a straightjacket. Spoken language at least can have inflection, body language, nod and wink, life-situation context. Written language is like (and relies on metaphor) an interstate highway that goes through 237 miles of wide-open desert with no stops. You have to gas up to make it through, and the only way to get through it is to just continue to drive. That’s all you can do. Sit in that seat, press on the pedal, make steering corrections, try to occupy your mind by imagining that this desert is more interesting than it is.
  
  Someone asks me if I’ve read Stephen King. I read ‘Cujo’ when I was in high school. “Oh, but you should read ‘The Dead Zone.’”… Saw the movie. “But the book is sooooo much better…” How? “Well, it goes into so much more detail.” There’s no detail to go into. The guy can see the future. He sees the politician destroying the world. He has to choose between maybe saving the world, or murdering a man for something he may not actually do. The politician’s own corruption betrays him, though, so the hero squeaks by, and King squeaks by having to give us a satisfactory ending. What more detail do I need? “Yeah, but the writing is really good…”
  
  No, it’s not. Well, some of King is OK, but overall, I’m sick of reading things. I picked up this Ballard book and realized what utter literary crap I’ve been considering to put in my brain. Ballard and the new issue of ‘Adbusters’ have really gotten me agitated.
  
  What am I settling for? What kind of crappy excuse for a culture am I complicit in?

  • 4:02 am
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