we are all ghostwriters.

  1. we familiarize ourselves with the other.
  2. we take its story.
  3. we offer a re-narration.
  1. language is the other. we explore its contours, slippages and limits with adolescent tirades, escape its enclosures with experimental purges and mask ourselves behind its quiet story with adaptation and assumption. it is the subject that we study within every second, but not just from afar as stifled voyeur but intimately, hand in hand, step in step. this occurs like the start of a universe; an explosion from nothing; once there it can only refer to itself and it begins in terms of itself. it is dwelling, it requires space, silence, nothing.
  2. the need for story rises, strong and keen, from this relationship. we house ourselves in the structures of accepted communication but find ourselves without purpose. the desire to tell, to relate strikes us as a dumb, mute urge propelling us towards direction and resolution. we are led, blind into the channels of history, a recognition of place and consequence and time.
  3. it opens. language and history, space and time, forge a mutual awareness in which neither can recognize the other as anything and cannot comprehend of a lack in other. they are drawn together through a nib in a pen, unified strands of experienced existence, the two understandables: space and time. temporal spatiality. both exist within, and with each other, and become manifest within the clutches of the word.

for this is word.

the word standing alone represents the two extendables of thought, the boundaries within which we may only, and forever will think. once beyond, then we are truly beyond and will not think of this infancy.

word does not stand alone. it is removed from its origins with each pen-stroke, but just as soon as it leaves, it returns, it is woven back into the space and history in the act of writing, mimicking itself, a parody reflected back into the glittering eyes of the spectre that released its cycles.

it is not his history, not his language, he is within both space and time and can only watch as into a snowstorm held in glass. he shakes the ornament as hard as he possibly can and watches with suspended satisfaction as the flakes return to the scene in the glass in his hand, and nothing has changed but everything has moved. the writer shakes the known with every black letter he carves out, but his duty is not in the revolution of the act, but the conformity of the return.


One Response to “ghostwriter”

  1. Some ghosts are more alive than others.

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