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Recording my Language.

Right yeah like…Basic property of storytelling  is language so it’s not surprising right that I have come smack up against written and spoken langue during this piece.  On the home stretch now may be the time to try and enter into langue to describe my battle with it. (Is this ironic?? I still don’t understand the concept. Bugger it… another of my lost battles)

Yeah I don’t know what irony is but more alarming than that I don’t remember as a young child ever learning the rules of spelling.  I think I got as far as Bee Eat Cabbages and Uncle sells Eggs and thats it. Also as a teenager in high school I definitely did not ever get concisely instructed in grammar or sentence structure. I can barely comprehend how one would go about writing with subtlety or sophistication I mean certainly feel my writing is a little reckless and obvious and that’s cool that’s what I do. But on the flip side I’ll ready pretty much anything from trashy a mills and boons Novel to old university text books. I can also read a 1000 pages of text in a single day.  I might not eat during that day but I’m happy to forgo that. I read the same books and scripts again and again sometimes immediately after I finish them I start again. Yeah back to back. I found through this hefty obsession much more apt at orientating myself within a world that was much larger than I and I still do. My relationship with written language is somewhat one sided and extremely flawed. Receiving language is easy and comforting for me expressing with the same joy and comfort is filled with so many pitfalls.

First of all it is painful to read over my own work and discover just how shaky the writing building blocks are.  It’s particularly  soul shattering when friends lean over your shoulder and giggles patronisnly at your typing or obsessively and nastily hisses in your ear to change backwards spelling when you are half way through a really important thought. It’s like having nails driven through your hands.  I swear you never really want to write after some of the bollocks I have had said to me and i didn’t write for a long time at least I never showed it to anyone. Sometimes I still want to go Titus Andronic on myself. No not really but good metaphor. Dark. Metahore is a poetic device. That I remember learning.

It was only in Uni that I discovered a love of writing and it was only then because I was encouraged by some wonderful teachers to doggedly pursue a mode of writing that would help me communicate my kooky brain tangle. But again there was many long hour of frustration slowly uncovering arguments to be written down and I certainty wasn’t a person who could pull an all nighter before an essay.

And from this place I certainly didn’t expect to be writing so much for Artslab. It’s not a particularly fine writing style but I recognise it as me and I love it. This journey to find comfort with my own text was a long scary one and now in the last few weeks I have attempted to fall in love with a whole new writing voice. No scratch that I’m just trying to write with it. Trying to write with one that will let me move away from my own chunky poetics but still speaks about the unspeakable. I have tried to learn by osmosis the language of Quantum mechanics, Theory Of Uncertainty and String Theory. I am trying to develop a whole new language for myself.  

I don’t know if it’s working but Imma thrashing around attempting to hammer out a second syntax and second space that interacts with the first yet maintains its own integrity. Capturing it through a written script and lots of bouncing around with David Buckly to help me sort out the duel strands of thought and pin something down. It’s not easy, language is flawed, so very flawed yet strangely comforting in its false promise of holding a singular answer to big questions so I keep thrashing.

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