If I were the writing sort, I’d start thinking about what’s going on at Deerhound Diary. Treating it as some kind of whole.
Oops. I am the writing sort. Maybe I shouldn’t comment on my own stuff. But I will anyway. Because I just can’t not.
In my mind it’s a whole, given that our world as we know it is ending. I value and respect our commenters, but they respond to each post as if it were distinct from others. There is no conversation. Just comments. You don’t have to respond precisely to what I say from day to day. Doesn’t anybody want to talk, to rage, about what’s happening?
When I rip off five posts in a row, as I’ve done here in a way I couldn’t at the other place, I AM asking you to put it all together, hold it all in your heads at the same time. What I did in my early writing, trying to defeat the line. Trying in fact to dynamite the line. Later, I surrendered to the line and wrote arguments not holograms.
I don’t know whether I’m effective at what I’m trying to do. You come in and say I liked that or you made me think of this similar anecdote. Which is welcome. But there’s a bigger intent here. Everything is everything. I don’t get that you all get that.
Synchronicity. Serendicity. The country is stricken. My wife has a horribly broken arm. My deerhound is traumatized. Everything is everything. As always, I am living and feeling everything at once. Is anyone else experiencing this synergy of disaster? Does anyone want to talk? Or is denial your preference, our national preference, the same one step at a time approach we see even in the new media? Life is life, politics is politics, and disgusting corruption is something we can all pretend is business as usual. You know, it’s always bad, it’s bad now, and our best defense is to be reasonable, rational, and measured in our response.
That’s not how I feel. I don’t feel like reading quotes or mild statements of agreement. I feel like reading rage, wild hope, nasty nasty indictments, the passion of the living.
I know I’m alive because I feel like I’m dying. How do you feel? Are you just factoring it all in with the help of comforting readings that tell you you understand what is happening? Is there some cultural morphine that’s dulling your pain, fear, and dread?
Or, are you like me, insanely on fire, seeing symbolism in every moment of our truly unique and desperate times?
The meaning of the deerhound: he is the life of me, the embodiment of what I once was, fierce, unstoppable, invulnerable. But he has become languid, immanent. He licks my elbow. His latent, immense force is stilled.
I am paralyzed and he knows it. I am supremely enraged and powerless to express it adequately. Not an emotion I’m used to. He looks at me with sad Scottish eyes.
Read through all the posts here, from front to back or back to front. Get a sense of the tiptoeing between private life and public catastrophe. Ken the highs and lows. Experience your own versions of same. Then talk….