diary 1.02

beauty is sometimes an evasive measure.

july 18 2024

here’s what you’re working with: your body-brain-mind is ashamed of your unedited writing, so ashamed that you don’t let anyone use your computer, huge cartoonish shame, like you’re naked at school in a dream, and to be able to sit with your writing without shame first requires many many rounds of consideration and agonizing about the writing, thought mazes in the forty minutes of darkness before sleep, thought mazes in the shower, over many weeks, to make sure you’re really onto something, before you (think for a moment you) are able to see what the writing really needs, what the writing forgot, where the writing was naive, and, ultimately, mark another plot on the map towards intelligence you’re still missing, and might always be missing, the intelligence that you’ll require to arrive at the real point, the point rooted in and returning to the nexus of all human and universal experience, the sublime place, and you sit with the writing day after day, waiting for the thought that closes the current, waiting for the new intelligence that will let you show everyone the sublime place, and you’re waiting, you’re waiting, but the intelligence never comes, and your ultimate, radical point gets brighter and hotter and closer to the nerve, the light is briefly immense, unsayable, and then it is nothing.