Between Memory, Geography and Geology

Working through as burrowing through layers that have lain fallow for too long, that have all kinds of outgrowth holding them together before going through them will turn a terrain become alien and unchanging into a rhizome of entries and exits through which flows might pass. To the archeology of culture or knowledge there must be a pendant of archeology of personal culturalization and knowledge. Maybe one should call it memory as a collection of impressions and facts that are outdated, dated and out of use, that only with effort let themselves be relevant to a wider range of concerns, let alone can be made public without the pangs of disclosure of something that causes one to feel awkwardness. Realizing that there are layers upon layers of historical experience that does not stop with its personal actuality but probably start from a here and now of its perception in the present moment that sees it as a part of an unfolding horizon, a veritable landscape of memory where personal merges, or morphs into collective. One might be gripped with an urge to seize a chalk and draw a line, or better, a circle between oneself and the world, to create a borderland between one's self and other selves in time or space. A second geography of affective, cognitive and whatever other kind of experience of one's past, one's memory and one's nostalgia may thus be charted.

Stream of Consciousness Account of What Lies Just Benieth Ones Consciousness

Groping for words out of the basin of silences that amount to unspoken configurations possibly waiting for being voiced and possibly not. Hurtling through days towards uncertain goals that quiver in the shifting perspective as if through a mass of hot summer air. Looking for what may offer a grounding touchstone in the flux of everyday life that get detached from any chance of visibility of its direction, flow or horizon. From I write therefore I am emerges an imperative to maintain willingness to compose another screenful of sentences that may or may not hold together into a whole. Plumbing the depths of my own linguistic alienation from languages I live in, into and through to find a sense of delicate or not so delicate balance of self presentation and representation at one and the same time. Speeding ones stream of consciousness beyond the swamps of what passes for a writer's block of people who do not feel themselves to be writers. The swelling wave of verbal inflation engulfing the information space of the internet searches and indexes that wash indexes of micro-relevance and -visibility ashore of our attention margins. Choosing sense of time by the books that lend its forms from different languages and periods to chart the ever changing present as if it were a landscape to reconnoiter. Willing to read Joyce's Ulysses in German.

Metamorphoses of Self

From wherever we find ourselves in our lives we still do want to find our way to what we define as a goal that one is justified in striving for. Call it what you will, it remains elusive. Writing as transition medium, as a vehicle of psychological transfer, and as a prompt for working through of what stands in our way in reaching that half-defined goal, can only serve this purpose in so far as one reaches the point of taking recourse to it. Inner ways stops being a metaphor in favor of becoming a means for reaching spots in our selves that otherwise remain out of reach, touch and transformation. Whether we conceive of it in a manner of Kafka's metamorphosis that happens overnight to an unawares individual, or in a manner of Borges' labyrinth that we may though enter but might not necessarily find out way back out of, or in a manner of Musil's recognition of being human beings without qualities driven by circumstances, reflections and sensations, the project of collecting not just one's thoughts but also the threads of one's everyday life into a semblance of a configuration one can find one's own place in remains open. Rather than waiting for happiness, one might more reasonably wait for a transformation coming forth in ways one might hardly be able to foresee.

The Other Side of the Moon of Our Own Minds

At this moment it is more about what lies beyond the scope of the visible, such as the other side of the moon, than coming to terms with what is. Taking metaphor at its word, one would need not only to get to the other side of the moon but also to be able to shine a light on what one cannot see otherwise. Beyond the technical impossibility of such undertaking lies the understanding that there are dark areas that have to be accepted as such and without possibility of bringing them to consciousness as a field of unimpeded perception. Not just a consequence of the play of light and shadow, the other side of the moon that is arguably always the other side of the satellite that turns in concert with the earth in a way that only one side is always visible from wherever one finds oneself at the moment is a spatial given that withdraws itself from an access through discursive means. For my purposes here, the unconsciousness or the areas of our consciousness that recede into the shadows of our reason and reasoning is the other side of the moon that one might as well come to terms with accepting the aporias and impossibilities of actually getting to know what it is like.

Dérive, Reflection, Blog Writing

Loosing a mood, looking for one's way to get back to it, analyzing affective transfers that web carries widely beyond their territorializations of origin, overcoming micro writing blocks that being free to write down the upswelling content of one's sub- or un- or pre-consciousness that lets itself be verbalized in the twilight zone between silence and speech, recollecting moments of literary sublime in terms that have long lost their personal currency, blazing trails of future self perception and experience, translating back and forth and probably sideways too between the target and source languages, adding landscapes of meaning where only white spots of knowledge to acquire still make up the perceptive map, wanting to keep epistolary promises and finding hard to deal with larger commitments that that might imply, sitting at a coffee shop and listening to a podcast, measuring up the time that has elapses from one visit to a coffeehouse to another, deciding to build one's competence level by level as if it were about learning how to exactly follow a complex sequence of movements in space, loosing connection to one's states of mind that only a moment ago were close at hand of one's inner eye as if one were walking across an inner terrain.