‘to reduce the fever of feeling’

Outside the wind howls. Inside a trio of snowmen converse in the vicinity of a conference of paper birds. Last night the ‘artsy’ neighbors continued their grand tradition of slamming doors and other unidentifiable objects against floors and walls for several hours between approximately midnight and the archetypal 3 AM hour. Result: current state of apathetic grogginess. Desire for absence of shared walls swells with each passing night of lost sleep.

Days less measureless than before. Crystalline structure of incipient routines inches out beyond the borders of a now worn and tarnished impersonation of L.B. in Rear Window. Except there never was anything even vaguely menacing to observe, only a sea of moment-waves rocking gently against the fragile hull of this origami sailboat.

Return to Pessoa’s words: no novelty in the universal, no comprehensibility in the individual. The old ruse of intentional obfuscation falls flat. But still the urge to fit words together roils inside. Maybe to do it, like Pessoa says, ‘to reduce the fever of feeling.’ Yet if all is unimportant (which it is), why bother describing any version of it. Unless perhaps to merely locate and handle the words themselves. To dive to the bottom, seeking words buried deep in a consciousness whose mirrored surface rests fathoms above undisturbed layers of sediment. Yes, perhaps it is for that reason: to extract anything worth contemplating from the granular level, to slip some small truth from the interstices and examine it from all sides, even if only to then return it unseen.

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4 Comments

  1. Yes: “But still the urge to fit words together roils inside.” I still haven’t come to terms with the why of this need, or with the (likely fear-based) laziness that keeps it from producing everything that wants to get out, and– here’s a probable why– to make the connections said productions are at bottom yearning to achieve.

    Reply
    • “to make the connections said productions are at bottom yearning to achieve”

      Indeed!

      Reply
      • Here’s more on this theme from Nicanor Parra, in “Telegrams,” which coincidentally crossed my path last night:

        III.
        What the hell am I writing for?
        I write to make you love and respect me
        To satisfy God and the devil
        To record everything.

        To cry and laugh at the same time
        Verily verily
        I don’t know what the hell I’m writing for.
        I guess I do it out of envy.

        Reply
        • It certainly is somewhat comforting to know how many others have also questioned the point of writing.

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