Yesterday was one of intervals and intervals interrupted. Began the day attempting to write a blog, but without a starting point. I tracked back through old blogs, beyond a site and onto the last, and there – in the face of old writing – became mute. There is a distance one encounters in meeting old work, a distance in every sense.
There is that distance of past events. Keeping in step with the fertile mundanity of everyday life, a blog offers a transliteration of physical movements – I went here, I did this. These words ask for a recollection, but a recollection through them. In writing, the memory has become defined thus – that which is not written for me, is forgotten.
So what of the fact that I did not write yesterday? Is yesterday now forgotten? But I can remember the early start and light breakfast, the administrative tasks performed with routine, the midday intervention of an old friend at the door invited inside. Later, I played music with him on piano, amplified dictaphone, keyboard and battered guitar pick-ups. Later still, we went to the park and played two hours of football, which I regret.
Will I remember this in five years? Now I have written of it, it will have a presence. But remembering is not possible here, the recollection will not occur independently but through the words. They are a means to false memory, the lies they incidentally contain face no inquest in the processes of reading and recollection.
Another distance – that of voice. Who wrote these words? I can picture the events now clear enough, the but the act of writing has become distance. This craft seems foreign. And the distance of ideas, yet another distance! How did this become formulated, whose arguments are these? Belief and its structure are two different worlds.
So upon reading old work, we face a distance in event, voice and idea – three distinct distances of memory, language and thought that intertwine in such a way as to deny a reading in any way other than through the writing itself. The thought of this stopped me writing yesterday, unable to hurdle the responsibility. Literature begins only where literature is possible.