Finishing “creative fidelity” feels like a milestone, not because it’s especially comprehensive of what I want to do going forward (it’s not) or difficult (not), but because it draws closure on something that began over a year ago, and this is somewhat represented by “c.f.”’s frequent linking back to earlier pages. I feel I’ve won a justified freedom now to write as eccentrically as I please without contradicting (or undermining) my fidelity to living very ordinarily wherever that’s apt—ethically, cogently, and graciously. But that’s as if life isn’t theater; yet life is theater, to my sensibility. Particularly theatrical is the pretense that life isn’t theater.
But writing this annuls the whole game, relative to any reader.
Again, it’s easy to be wholly myself, simply (as I insisted in the previous posting, Jan. 19, as if that needed insistence). But I hope for a good sense of life’s resonance with a friend. Ordinary days easily deserve a silent sense of surrealism.
What do I want to retain here from now-deleted, ephemeral daynotes of recent days?….
monday — 1/24I’m going to get back to that in the next project (subproject) linked from “life world.” I’m doing well to upload something substantial each Sunday, but I don’t know that I can be fair to what I’m doing, yet always get something out the door on Sunday. I’ll try, though—though fidelity to what I’m designing to do must prevail!
This past weekend’s New York Times Book Review wonders—speciously, in my view—whether fiction can be philosophical and appealing. The writer of the article is going about it all wrong. It’s chat, not anything insightful.
I guess it’s up to me to set the world straight.
thursday — 1/27I’m looking forward to more-literary writing (i.e., writing in terms of overtly literary things of others) over the next month or so. Then I’m intending to return to a lot more psychological work, then entirely philosophical work later this year. 2012 will probably be literary-philosophically “ruined” by my political obsessions.
What matters more than fidelity to a rate of posting is the quality of posting I do. So what if it’s once a week or less.
The inner-directed mind is a valid thing, its timeline worth patience.
So what that I want literary phenomenology from creative play, and I’m barely so far able to actualize the desire (let alone exemplarily).
Had I the time now, I’d easily return to my mental arcadia. That prospect is always here, which, hedonically speaking, makes me happy (though, in the long run, it’s fulfillment—Meaning— in pursuing prospects I want, not mere satisfaction).
Sigh….I see it all lain our before me. I want to retire before Obama gets re-elected, then spend as much time each week writing as I now spend wasting my life (not really) in the department. (But I do have my depressing days.)