Retrogrades and (re)appearances of late

The ideal of transparency and maintaining connection has been a high one to reach for me in the past weeks of absence. I realize that I don’t write when I feel really bad. I have no translation for “really”, except to double it “really, really” (adjective). The emphasis and proper weight of my issues and emotions allude me especially in the duration of my introspections.

Are not writers keen in their observations and astute in their literary judgements? I am a writer. I can be dull, dumb and depressed in my observations and judgements. I must not be a writer. Ergo, weeks of no-writing.

I discovered that it takes awhile for thoughts, humor, wisdom, a point of view to appear through writing. My personal self needs some privacy in order to feel like she can bare the world her tender breasts as beauty and as nourishment. The vehicle of blogging is unrealistic in its demands for multiple updates and posts. Time is quickened to a pace far faster than good writing can adhere with any consideration. I tried to relieve myself of this pressure by rationalizing how I could start multiple writing projects beyond the regular posts in the blog.

I could take on
the Korean American novel of the 21st century,

a businees plan for my cookie factory;

a grant proposal to keep the california libraries open;

a love letter to the older man who made
a fool of himself for romantic chase
and the young girl in her twenties who let him;

a love letter to the young woman in her twenties
who made a fool of herself for romantic chase
and the older man who let her

a letter to the inconsolable child
the depressed odd teen
the lost soul determined to wander

these letters I would string into beautiful
sounds from the head, heart and feet
a chorus I could sing for
food and shelter

keep the maternal worries away
from the writing which has to be free
in her will to play,
challenge,
unsettle,
the best from the rest.

But as much as I thought it unsatisfactory to write about the self as subject, I could not trick myself into feigning interest in the overculture or in the stories that surround me in the lives of others. Am I starting on the greatest love affair of my life or running at the shallowest orephous in the body-the navel? It’s too early to judge, and too facile to stop either way. The effort to write continuously is a decision I made about the time I sensed that I was not very well suited for corporate culture, the business world, tenured eschalons of academia, the stage or the convent.

I am still a literary ugly duckling for now….

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About heartbluestockings

All posts are original intellectual property. Copyright 2010 Hae Jung Kwon. All rights reserved.
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7 Responses to Retrogrades and (re)appearances of late

  1. Patricia says:

    Welcome back!!!

    Pink Otter hopes you are feeling better and ready soon to swan-blossom. :-)))

    • Thanks to Google, I learn from the clicks of a few keyboards that there are seven species of swans. Karen Wright records, “the Mute Swan is recognized as a symbol of grace in myth and legend and was the species Tchaikovsky chose to immortalize in the ballet Swan Lakes.” I am now disallusioned about following such a symbol for my personal mythology. I will not identify with anything mute, regardless of its graceful appearance.

      A writer cannot be mute in her writing. Maybe in her personal life…. like in the example of Maya Angelou when she thought that her speaking out put the man who molested her brought about his physical death. I’ve heard many writers who have given the vow of silence a serious second look for the practice of communion with divine consciousness.

      But the writing has to be clear in order to penetrate the boundaries/ grounds/soul depths of readers, the critics and the worlds that it influences.

  2. liz says:

    if a writer ceases to form another written word with creative intention, is she still a writer?

    • I find consolation and inspiration in the words from “dr. e” aka Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Phd who reaffirms that the writer is a writer before any word has ever been written.

      And in personal experience, there is damage and ruins to sift and bear witness to from the rejection of own’s soul and connection to literary creativity. There are open sores that cover my body telling truths that I don’t speak about nor commit to paper.

      I struggle every day to recall this part of my soul and believe in matters that have not appeared before me.

  3. liz says:

    indeed. and agreed, “dr. e” is the bomb.

    having attended art school in the 80’s, i struggled for years within myself when the urge to “produce” art left me. the puzzled expectations from others didn’t help. i’ve come to realize that this self-imposed torture was yet another way for my ego to fear that i am not enough.

    i see as an artist. all of the time. i see the ironies of life, the quality of light passing through particles in the air and falling upon objects, the tenuous complexities between people and the ways in which we all long for love and comfort. the need to capture and express such observances is not always there, and the pressure i’ve witnessed within myself as a result feels unkind.

    i am a work in progress towards the total acceptance that i am enough as i am.

    • There is a difference between the modes of being and doing which sometimes feel like a unconscious blur. It is with a decided pause that one would notice such a fine point. Your revelations of self expand and find means to embrace mine and unnumbered others’ lives of inner being and “productive” effects.

      Perhaps we can find heart in the domestic cat who seeks the sun through a clear window pane and love from the rising chest of his owner.

  4. liz says:

    my cat is my greatest teacher.

    people often ask: “what would a yogi do?” this can be yet another trap to compare oneself to another. the beings i admire most are those who walk in their truth unapologetically, such as animals, children – before they’ve been influenced otherwise – and the elderly.

    go forth and live thy truth, i say!

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