Journal, dated May
These days I balk when faced with the blank page. Not that there is anything unusual in that -somewhere in every writer's mind breathes a knowing menagerie that every now and then manages to lash out and inflict a white-hot fever capable of bleaching out all thought. And when the alabaster vision blanches itself out the fog sets in, wreathed in which writing becomes a semi-tipsy affair, a mime act tripping over its own words. But the hand which had last potted my pen in the tomb extends from a specific set of questions rather than the periodic bout of stasis. The first of these relate to the external -what is the goal and/or function of my writing; what does it do for both my readers and myself? I don't think this self-awareness (particularly as how I intend for this space to remain a personal one at its core) should necessarily be viewed as an inhibition to my creative growth, or as a compromise of my blogging intentions -there are many great blogs out there that are testament to how an organic voice and a well-defined, most of the time also self-assigned onus can thrive side-by-side. In fact, in the context of fashion/culture blogging, I don't think what I'd call the second-generation bloggers can even pretend to not have given these questions a thought -like it or not it's the white elephant in the room, an inherited consciousness that comes with the territory. And with the state of blogging declared a crisis, this basic sense of accountability is, in my opinion, the first step towards restoring integrity, be it towards the audience or towards bloggers themselves. As for myself these are, admittedly, questions set in the future tense; my commitment here over the past few months has been much too scarce for a meaningful retrospect at this point of time, and what I have put out tethers, unconvincingly, between self-absorbed ravings and uninformed babble.
Its rather more difficult counterpart deals with the internal question, namely the way I think and the way I write. Staring out from the backwoods of my own mind I've learnt a little bit more about each of the bad creative habits I harbor, a slew of which I have somehow managed to chalk up over the past sixteen years of my life. My estimation is that my record books really started to bleed seven years ago, when the compulsive self-seeker of 9-year old me had myself conscripted into identity bootcamp. That is, I was so intent on "finding myself" that I literally began take on different personas, complete with name, accent and handwriting changes, and also a hell lot of disruption to the goings-on of normal life (a rather disturbing response to Sylvia Plath: “Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?”) And seven years later I still find myself on the courtyard of this camp, grubbing for integrity of self-concept. Over the wire in civilian life the trauma translates itself into an ascetic regime of throat-clenching curation (everything has to be in perfect orbit to the definitive position in the universe I am to occupy). But obviously the self is not something that can be welded together, and the determination of this white-knuckled fist took a tremendous toll on my creative efforts. It is, in other words, a tale of mismanaged perfectionism.
So, what next? Where do I begin, and what can I do? Speak about matching chaos with an equal measure of ambition; my aim is to situate contemporary culture in the larger, aesthetic universe. I'm talking about deconstruction, provenance, and introspection. I'm calling for the machetes and machine guns. I'm calling for a dialogue -sharing, and many, many questions. And while doing all these I also want to talk to you about my misguided childhood existentialist escapades and my equally askew dreams for the future, because in 21st century cyberspace we've no excuse and everything to celebrate about the binary presence. The private is political, and the political is art. It's also a chance for me to prove that I take my role models' beratings seriously -real artists are supposed to ship, so I'll make it a principle to deliver, whether it means sharing a crappy poem or doing more research.
I don't think I am any less confused than when I first began. But here goes.
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