Return of the King

I think Hemingway was wrong.

This idea of waking up in the morning and writing when your head is clear.  I sense my process must be more beat-style.  Free-flowing.  Not focused on precision.  Choosing the right word.  The exact and perfect sentence.  Discipline might get you there, but I am not that.  I am not of the mindset anymore to strive for such excellence.  Nor am I disappointed by any failure to "achieve" as all seems so impermanent.  Fungible.  Esoteric.  Incandescent.  Ephemeral.

Beautiful words, all. 

Today, some words about the "realization phase" and the Mr. Frodo water bottle.  The search for quotes and that old gem from Gandalf, about deciding what to do with the time that has been given to us.  Thinking all day about what you have been doing with that time.

11 years ago today, arriving in Santiago and noting Dante's pilgrim definition.

2 years ago today, and Merci Arsene, a game I barely remember, but for the sun and joy and privilege of the bookend.

What is memory, how much is reinforced by storytelling, multimedia recollection.  Et al.

Talking with Inch tonight, randomly (or is it), about such joys.  How not to take things for granted.  A pint in a pub.  Jostling through a crowd.  Not only taken for granted, but not even a pause for thought.

Now is the time for that pause for thought.  When the remaining years resume, a new mindset, for a time.  In this "temporality".  SK has a new novel, a cover with a colour scheme issue that seems slight off, a plot that seems too sadly... close.  And yet I cannot wait to read it. 

Coming on 6 years since Happy in Treasure Beach and, later, hated Van Persie in Salvador.

4 years since Hal Robson-Kanu in Lille.  The idea of showing highlights, one second a part, that would not be believable.

Mental health week.  The struggle, after a few shots of the Lamb's spiced, after the end of Deadwood Fall, after the aborted convo between Wells and Page, and then the discussion with Inch, to not open this bottle.  The inability to do so.  Reframe.  The undesire to do so.  UnbuckleMe on Shark Tank.  Show me other investments, and whether now is the time to buy.  The optimism/pessimism of the discussions over the COMFIT.  The ridiculousness over the "technical" rewording of the B'water recommendations. All from this room.

Zoom.

All so focused on kids.  Yet in this mind it is about the past and future.  Thoughts on the randomness of the pandemic, the effects if it had hit at other times over the past decades.  The impact on the trajectory.  All trajectories, but personal ones primary among the thoughts.

The NUIG call of Irish authors, the most creatively productive of this two month hiatus.  Not an onus to do anything now, an onus to think about what it is, always the subconscious, churning in the background.  Rethink.  Reinvigorate.  These people and their deep interests that you might skip over in an instant, rather than devote a lifetime of study to.  Remember the name: Hakluyt.  16th century travel.  If you see this later and have forgotten totally, remember.

Think of the essay as a way of answering a question, or making sense of things.  Writing as a way of ordering thoughts, or (easier) putting them down to see and process.  To stop the whirlwind for a moment.  Freeze, as Cecile said, about her trip plans.  "On a freeze."

There was the Derby and the crowds from prior years.  So strange.  The remembrance of last year at the nursing home and the controversy, that now seems so so so so so quaint. 

Fascinating, this time is, the shallowness, the featurelessness, the unknown.  The collective breath intake.  Keeping diaries and the like.  B. Esk doing the same, among the vamps and Scottish connections and such.  So very strange.  I enjoyed the random references of refreshment, of nourishment.  The call back to the Pepys diary ("peeps") and the purchase of a new razor - "it pleased me mightily".  Such an Irish turn of phrase.  One to think on, soon enough, when you turn it to your own head, on the return.

The return.  Which we hope for.  Transport right out of the current emotional life.  Like when T. Henry returned, for everyone else, yet for you the first time.  The list of bets and the last best of all.  Chance... goal.  Right in front of you.  8 years and a few months ago tonight.  How much of life is spent recalling, how much enjoyment is there in the actual moments where it is done.  How much do we (not) know.

Full Flower Moon tonight. 

Hemingway had a lot right, and to admire.  But Kerouac remains the more kindred friend.  And perhaps the lesson when you return to the keyboard after an absence in Halifax in a few weeks, is to let that spirit play a brighter guide.  Less rational focus on word choices, more on what feels or flows.  Less guarded.  You cannot convince with reason, it seems, from feedback so far. 

Do the same as to date, but make sure you let the subconscious in.