I had twenty years, this novel (Belief) to write.
I think: yet: twenty years is enough, for whatever. A human, given twenty years,
he can do something!
I do not want to say, that the well has dried up, the tree dries up. After having many, many years of unfinished fruit
wore. But I can't work with the current cognitive conditions 100 Overlook pages more!
I can say: this arm has died! No sense, trying to translate the six chapters into my mind,
pull them there and finish the final chapter; the “quarantine” to grasp in a logical sequence within the whole.
A healthy brain can have a hundred pages (maybe 500?) map in a good hour, filter the essence from it, the
Capture structure. A healthy brain has these hours of extraordinary clarity!!!
I remember…. of the lightness:
THAT I WRITTEN WITH.
I don't see much anymore— with my brain. I don't see anything anymore. Nothing… except for the immediate sentence.
Anger comes over me…. I've lost my brain….. now, where I maybe a little more……
—–
HAHAHA, COMING NOW: inner maturity…. to tell my BIOGRAPHY BACKWARDS.
BUT, FROM THE END, YOU TELL BACK TO THE BEGINNING? THIS ORDER IS INLOGICAL!?
YOU BEGIN WITH LIFE, THE TELLING, AT ZERO …..
—–
BUT: A problem that arises from long life: You're stuck in life, one grows together over the years!!!
This is how long and deep you are ultimately stuck in your own biography, that it feels like a jungle.
jungle, in which one haunts. You lose all objectivity (as you can see from many contemporary witnesses).
Already with the birth everything was too nahhhhh!!!! Haha.
—-
Later, when you are old or sick (dement and pre-dement, like me), the memory breaks off behind you.
What has been crumbles into fragments. And there you can— Lord God, may it be true!? Wie tricky! —- his biography
again do not tell!!!!
Definitely not me.
—–
Im “Belief” I have probably mapped one or the other selfi linguistically.
Poor (compared to inwardness, that filled my body time.)
—–
I see new, nebulous, very, very nebulous:
You cannot tell inner experiences in prose. It just leads to gas.
So everything will probably be just a process.
A process will never be separated from me, my flesh.
A process remains unfinished, unfertig. In other words: ugly.
So how: to die like that? (Ha ha, to hold on to me at least need an obsessive one, clear thoughts!)
——
A hundred pages can only fail in twenty years!
—-
Still Fragments: I am revising the final chapter, because: Sentimentality shouldn't be my thing in prose….
—–
READ / CHECK LOUD, WHO WEEPED HIS HEART IN SILENCE ON PAPER, ERGOSS! CLAMPED ON
ON PAPER IN A SENTIMENTAL MOMENT. (Marguerite Duras may be able to write the pain.)
THEN COME TO SENSE AND GET TO THE TECHNICAL WORK OF SYSIPHOS.
Angry, doggedly. Slide up the crown. And throw it down again!
—–
COMPRESS, BECAUSE THINKING IS NOT POSSIBLE:
But obviously my ambivalence is so great, that I won't find out, how I could still reach my goal:
maybe half a goal, a quarter of a goal:
By using A: write everything down, the blind thought energy. Will lead to entropy.
Or B: by doing just about anything, that imposes itself on me in a blank line AUFSPARE.
Thought pauses, Silent paragraphs…. longer and longer and more confused…. getting denser and denser…..
—–
(14.7.21)