It’s not the creative act. It’s the selection.
I sit in ‘brown study’ and inhabit scenes, all imaginary. In detail. In dialogue. In every particular of nuance, accent, mannerism. I need a speed-of-light pen. It can’t be done. I can’t make a precis. I can’t focus on detail. I can’t pick and choose. Everything is there and real. The room dims and I see what I’m imagining, and there is no pause-button to press.
That isn’t psychosis in my book. It’s an act of imagination, albeit one that takes over my reality – but I know what it is that I’m doing.
It’s always been my creative failing.
Over the years a few decent chapters got written down, and lost over the years too.
Maybe this is why I’m heading back to my first loves – visual expression, poetry…
I can sit for hours threading my mind down through mazy cities of people and events – it’s like dreaming while awake. All manner of things happen. And it feels as real as dreams feel. But still awake. Bizarre.
I repudiate the concept that having a knack for that somehow makes me ill.
I call psychosis that babble when I somehow know 1 = 2 and am trying my hardest to convey that to others and they are scared and white-faced and when I’ve calmed down I want to weep for the memory or the knowledge of how it was that I made 1 = 2 and how it’s lost again.
As for life, and the want to live, and the want to be normal, and the want of steadiness, and the wantonness of the burbling spring. Well pour on the concrete, and dynamite the concrete, simultaneously.
p.s. 1=2 is my shorthand for any impossible predicament that somehow in those 'funny' moments one can harmonize and make impossibly possible.
p.p.s at twenty past five. Beckett's "All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better." The 'Fail better' is a classic 1=2. Double bind? No. Just the human condition.