Monday, April 20, 2015

designing woods

Soon, my runarounds there and here about writing offline without posting will be vindicated by the volume of posting that will happen regularly.

“So, that’s what had been gestating in dark woods.”

Presentation emerges, in a sense, backwards from development toward what’s to be presented. The storyteller knows the story before finding a fun translation (to be as if re-telling is the First Ever telling for the teller, too—as if there was no translation—as we are in this together, because we always were, though that was not yet known).

The development toward what becomes The Point of the allegedly unprecedented story was surely rocky or stormy. But the reader wants a smooth way to the horizon, into the bredth, depths, and heights. (A story about a rocky storm is not itself to be a rocky read—unless one is into Joycean humor or some such. Autobiography of exploration is no travelogue. It’s likely a travail log.)

Setting up a smooth way for the reader to get to The Point is another development for the storyteller, distinct from the rocky or stormy way that’s been lived.

Then reading toward The Point is about what was written with the author’s back to what’s to be the reader’s future, as if our future is foretold, as we stay attuned to where we’re going, for it's not that the past generates the future; rather origins emerge from gravity as futures always generating what’s to have been. The Emergent, entropic Story of the universe is that we are the disentropic promise making history.

Meanwhile, a hiker wants confidence that some guide knows where we’re going. The storyteller is presumed to be already worth one’s time before the story begins. But good faith has its horizon, too. In this sense at least, the teller is always a questionable channel of what there was to tell in telling strapped with need to sustain ensurance that The Point will be an intelligible, worthwhile stretch.

A classical trope of difficult living is the archetypal journey away from comfort into a dark night of The Abyss that amazingly returns to where one began, "now" with wholly new eyes, Beginning, unprecedented.

But one story of that to tell back home is how home was already always our place with greater potential than is commonly presumed, now [to be] known as always possibly achieved—achieved, yet as if having been potential unconcealed. Unconcealment is how achievement may look, like high mathematical fit may imply auratic in-difference (being in being) between lucky discovery and created insight.

Yet to be known without rocky and stormy ways? Must we suffer tragedy to learn how to live well? Certainly, creative process can feel crazy, like: What if the Earth is flat (i.e., an investment ruins me); or the view from the peak turns out to be lousy? Maybe the Point is a proximal pointillism evincing gestalts in a mirrorplay whose ultimate cohering is generative. And the peak is nameless fun?

Anyway, fruitfully making dense woods words' high landscape enacts itself in its own good time, as if a promise is like aging wine, and appreciation can transport boundlessly.