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a narrative condition
august 31, 2009

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“I’ve lost you,...”

Yesterday’s little posting was inspired by the PostSecret site: the voice of a postcard’s privacy. But the initial thought was that “you” are any reader recently seeing an array of topics linked from other little postings of recent days, like points of narrative license that couldn’t possibly cohere, yet.

Yet, the postcardal pretense of a typical lover’s lament would seem to be the writer’s postsecret, as if “I” had promised that “you” could never lose him unless you wished that—as if some promise to love you always, no matter what, had been annuled.

The narrator has missed you in a resonance of credible intents, between postcardal intimacy and public address; between expression (the writer) and stance, persona, narrator; between point of information and regret. Perchance you love the emerging pointillism, then mere anticipation that you’re liable to become lost in discursive play is a sadness, the postcardal intimacy a dispassionate reconciliation.

I’m writing you in the writing as such. So, in “I’ve lost you,” I may find you in the resonance yet.

“...as I move on”

In “I’ve lost you,” I was basically (though secretly) anticipating how arrayed the road’ll become: conceptual adventuring oriented by others’ difficult texts.

Yesterday, I sketched a short fiction, which I took offline this morning, that tacitly expressed a danger of originating character from actual life, tacitly questioning an ethicality of character formation about an ethicality of characters, through their ethicality of stance, implying a history of interaction that might flourish a narrative venue where a venture in ethical theory might dwell.

But it was too much, dangerous, an expression of how writing beneath an ordinary story inception for a typical reader can secretly draw too much from what’s too near.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t wait”

I’m so excited about where I’m going to go, including a vineland on the narrative condition (of text, of “Literature,” of history), our narrative plight (living some story that is our lives), as the species of maps and legacies.

 

 

 

 

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