Efface...Expunge...Erase...Delete...Rub Out...Wipe Out...Obliterate.

'As every humanities undergraduate now knows, Barnes in his famous 1967 essay The Death of the Author, declared that writing is a kind of self-annihilation or death - not an act of self discovery or self expression, not a covenant with immortality. Or to put it in Nabokov's terms, one writes not with the graphite at the nub of one's pencil, but with the eraser on the other end...'

Vladimir Nabokov and the Art of Play - Thomas Karshan.

The skull beneath the skin.

Human

The fever. The sickness. The plague. This emotional plague.

Late tribute to articulacy, sensitivity and true beauty.

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.

Edward FitzGerald

Write Right.

I'm going to force myself to write a piece about the desert island of the soul. My feelings of solitude, loneliness, and separation experienced on an every day basis. Instead of the bodily separation of a shipwrecked man; my protagonist will be isolated amongst incalculable number of men but with the same feelings of stranded abandonment.

My struggle.
Wish me luck.
x

+

Too much going on in this head;
enough to constitute nothing.

A Declaration.

My pathetically pointless narcissism is the only thing keeping me alive.
The declaration not said in the traditional sense of the 'One day I might achieve something' vanity but simply because I can't compose an articulate enough farewell note that would be at least of some true representation of myself. It'd be my last stand as a perfectionist I suppose...
My excuse to procrastinate? I'll do it soon, I promise.