Diary of an Exported Writer

Dear friends,

The Diaries are now nestling in a new project called Arjuna's Octupus where you'll find some very good writing. You'll find new posts already up!

The Whispering Rosebush has also moved to Poetry Holland.

Please update your bookmarks. It's been fun here.

Arjuna

Diary of an Unborn Writer #45 - Hanging all existential

Now resting on my Grandad's farm near Brisbane, Queensland, Oz. There is completely nothing to do but read and speak to the old man about his life and learnings. And these are deep. Treasured slow times, so after the relative pace of NZ (which by many measures was pretty slow - though internally a riot) I'm slowing down my psyche in this purgatorybetween the old and new.

It feels like a new life was revealed to me in NZ. Of potential and enjoyment and what can be done if we only do it slow enough - just what miracles can be achieved. There's the sort of optimism only a blank slate can give you. Ideas for the novel polished and developing, ideas for how to fill my time after the 3.5 days a week at my large blue-lettered employer. Funny how opportunity can produce such anxiety. A problem grappledwith by our friends Heidegger "et Sartre" (though I've recently discovered Heidegger turned into a Nazi propogandist after being elected rector of Freiburg University, arguing that Germans were not concerned enough with great men and struggle).

Looking at the tip of this anxiety it appears to have a taste of "anti-being" - a fear projected into the future so as to cover all expectation of future action. It cannot accept that life brims from the finger tips of this one as he writes or sleeps or enjoys another simple day in an impossible life. This impossibility is just what perplexes the"anti-being". It's all happening without it. The alienation going on without a hint of involvement in the surrounding events. The alienation removes itself from the world, and once this is seen, is as fragile as a bubble that goes pop and up lurches the realisation that it was never apart anyway, a little flow of space time that folded in on itself and denied its own superb existence. A keen thing that, to see that it was never apart. The flow is and always will be the same.

~o~

Dark dawns

Represses facet

That is not felt nor said

But is expressed as release

Two poles of a sphere come together

Itself to disappear

This is the learning and the learned

The fighting and the sky

The love in a terrible beauty

The asking to be free