Blue Sea

It’s nearly three weeks since I last posted here, but it seems much longer. Have I been too busy? No. Has there been a lack of interesting things to write about? No. Have I been too lazy? No. I’ve drafted stuff every day on voice recorder, in my black notebook, in Word documents, or (best of all) in my head, where it tends to couple promiscuously with other stuff to create infant ideas of infinite promise and mysterious forgettability. So what ingredient, what magical catalyst, was missing? I don’t know. My initial conclusion—the chemistry was wrong. Ah, but I can’t leave it there. Metaphors have a life of their own. They have legs. Is the chemistry of inspiration a real branch of science? Does it have its own pharmacology? There have been poets who swear by liquor, essayists who voyage on opium, but let us not drift down those dreamy rivers. More likely that inspiration is an Art, the art of love: how to conduct the sacred love-affair between author and Muse; to procreate some textual offspring, bonny enough to survive.

I want to know why I’ve remained silent, when each day I yearned to deliver. And where this yearning comes from, too. Publishing thoughts directly to the world serves no practical purpose. I haven’t made promises to anyone, nor to my knowledge created expectations and then failed to satisfy them. Nor is this a diary. There is no urge to share my private life, only to write something. Like my namesake Van Gogh, I take material from the one source that’s ever varying yet constantly available: that which I know with my own senses, mediated with intellect. He had only to look in the mirror to find a picture-subject, or at his bedroom, a café, the fields and clouds. I could never sustain a work of fiction. All I want is to reflect actuality as I see it; satisfied that my depiction in words is an imaginative water-colour, not a photograph. This is fiction enough, just as the author of these reflections is (my middle name) not the Ian who lives the real life.

At best, I am powerless to speak without whisperings from the Muse. There is nothing more joyful than to be the plaything of the immortals; for then we participate in the grand gestures. Then we are chauffeur-driven through life, as if we were Somebody. Then we have protection, we are granted a new identity. We have purpose, though it may be revealed to us only in fragments.

Rebb: That’s funny, Vincent. It doesn’t feel like three weeks to me either. Do you carry a notebook with you everywhere too? Do you sometimes find yourself standing somewhere and need to pull out your notebook no matter where you might be? Yesterday, I was so inclined to get my thoughts down and didn’t want to sit after exiting the BART train, that I kept walking and writing, trying not to bump into anything. I often think of the question you pose to yourself about remaining silent. For me, I think there are certain moments when I write something in my notebook and the fervor is there right then and there, but by the time I get home, I procrastinate or the feeling is not quite there. If I had a computer at hand I might even submit it right close to the moment, but would I feel insecure writing too freely? For me, I think sometimes I think too much about it and then I sap the muster right out of my little this and that’s.Something that has really surfaced for me, Vincent, is that in your writing, I read your moods, as though you wear them on your sleeves—sometimes jubilant, sometimes, serious, sometimes grouchy. I often wonder was he born under the sun sign of Pisces—not pragmatic enough, I’m sure. I was trying to find the best way to express this without being annoying. I like being able to ‘see,’ read these different sides of you. I am very sensitive to moods and I felt inclined to share my feelings, since in this piece your mood stood out. I really like how the picture is so blue—on almost all sides, with the wall and the gate, and K’s jeans. She looks so cute in her pose. p.s. I’ve said this before, but I’m so glad to have found your world through Luciana’s ocean. Enjoy reading and interacting with your essays. You are a master essayist!

Vincent: I’ve been reading your New Orleans posts with great interest, but didn’t comment because my reaction would have sounded negative. But it was negative towards the place not your depiction, or rather not the place but its touristiness: its attempt to display a fake soul meeting the expectations of its visitors, when all it has to do is be true to its permanent residents. I know that sounds naive. After all, it has to attract income from visitors.

Raymond: “We have purpose, though it may be revealed to us only in fragments.” That’s why your writing is so authentic Vincent. You don’t try to wrap it (life) all up in a simple narrative, one that Sartre would call “bad faith.” You give us the scattered diamonds, fragments of the fantastic treasures which are found everywhere, especially in the everyday, to be exposed only by the gifted poet.

Rebb: Vincent, Ah, interesting, thank you for confirming my curiosity/vibe. I’ve always loved taking pictures, but there are times when they may not be able to capture the feeling. One more thing about my feelings on writing is that I also realize sometimes I do in fact go back and try to resurrect a moment. My biggest psychological challenge is that I feel like because time has gone by, it is somehow not as authentic as it was in that moment, but if I feel strongly enough, I will work with it. I realize that many writers probably do this. After all, isn’t this why we carry around our notebooks and tape devices? Isn’t it such a funny thing? I know what you mean about “touristiness.” The one place I really did feel the negative side of tourism was when I went to Cancun, Mexico. In New Orleans, though, I felt like I was interacting with a real soul in its people and I went there with no expectations. It seemed to me a place where the residents couldn’t be fake if they tried. It struck me as a place filled with art and soul. Now, as with any place, it has its spots to stay out of and I did find myself wandering astray and recognized a street name not to cross and turned back swiftly. That’s probably why I can’t appreciate San Francisco as much as I’d like to. It’s difficult for me to get past the touristy feeling of it and I’m so close. I also like venturing out by myself and I don’t feel safe alone in SF.