30 September 2015

Simulated Thoughts about Fictions and Living

I had the idea first to write a phenomenology of sidewalks and domestic architecture.  I wanted to walk around staring at my feet and chronicle the precise succession of impressions that occurred to me, the textures, the cracks, the jutting edges.  I would follow the sidewalk to is end, and then walk on the grass by the roadside, looking for patterns of wear and  natural paths.

Next I thought, I will tell the story of bricks.  Bricks are fascinating things.  They have these incredible faces, with their subtle variations in color, their perfection and durability through time, the way an old brick looks just as solid and dignified as a new one.

In my mind, I imagined walking the gangway between two close buildings, and being immersed in the narrow chasm of brick walls, each rising up seventy or eighty bricks high, and then walking through to an enclosed clearing, where there were people waiting.

Then I wanted to tell the story of a political reaction, and the planning that went into the formation of such a group.  I would have picked out my characters, ten or twenty of them, pre-written their backstories, planned their relationships, and gotten to know them—their impulses, their fears, their ignorance.  Once I had done all that, I would have watched them discuss with each other, and live, and try to push forward a vague plan, which progressively became less vague, which eventually began to produce action, and results, and which startled and attracted the community.  And as the action built, around the group there would be tensions, but the tensions would be surmounted because I was more interested in witnessing a success than a failure, and in the end they would accomplish something.  How much, though, would they accomplish?  I'm not sure.

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Oh what's the use.  I walked through the doors and announced myself.  I am Franz Kafka.  I have an interview at 2:30 with Amelia.

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In fiction you can  tell lies, because no one knows any better than you do.

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Ideological work is no good.  No good.

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One has all these fears and anxieties.  No one wants to fall into clichés, no one wants to make a common error, or an uncommonly foolish one.  No one wants to try something and have it end in disaster, or protracted misery, or irreversible entrapment.

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The possibilities of life are falling all around me, falling and smashing into bits, and I must grab hold of something soon.