On this spring day intruded into winter the inspiring luminous cumuli are unable to assist. Their distance is one more reminder. The word-concepts sit remotely on the word-map-page; distant from each other and distant from me. The white of the word-map’s paper is the most obvious presence but today the presence is an absence as the white has apparently become a void. A tempo session leaves a pleasing echo but the books pile up and the words count; not as in ‘word-count’ but as in marking time (albeit timelessly and silently).
The word-map has unnerved me. We are not friends the word-map and I. We are not opponents either, rather we sit in painful ignorance of each other, with neither doing the other any good. The word-map should be some sort of mesh or nexus but this week it has become a sheet of co-ordinates noteable only for their isolation. The word ‘flow’ mocks me especially as the few sweeping (and connecting) lines that are present act more like scars than indications of transmission or commonality.
I read Heidegger’s “The Origin of the Work of Art” but all I get from it is further confirmation of the distance between me and the word-map (my word-map?).1 There seems no ‘common ground’ between the word-map and I; no ‘intimacy’.2 I cover the word-map up with books and notepads or move across the room away from it; the acuteness of the perspective only makes the appearance of the word-map more narrowed. Not aggressive, more like accusatory. It blames me. I blame it. Stalemate. What is its problem? We are not friends, we are not opponents. How do I tease this word-map back out into the open of the ‘common ground’?
I have tried ignoring it. I daydream about building it up in layers of heavy pencil graphite but this is too (mis-)leading for I have imagined it first before the work. Pb. Plumb new depths (or distances). The distance will be overcome but it is frustrating. I am impatient. There is surely something to this distance. It is not a void. The distance is productive of something it is just that I do not know how.
Perhaps the mesh has been over-stretched and the nodal points are no longer able to communicate; no longer able to make sense. Perhaps I am willing discovery when I should be inventing but somehow I have pinned myself to the spot. For now. Presently.
1. Martin Heidegger, “The Origin of the Work of Art,” in Martin Heidegger, Basic Writings, ed. David Farrell Krell (London: Routledge, 2008), 83-139.
2. “Strife is not a rift [Riss], as a mere cleft is ripped open; rather, it is the intimacy with which opponents belong to each other. This rift carries the opponents into the provenance of their unity by virtue of their common ground.” Ibid, 121.