writing in the dark.

The New year has begun and my writing has taken some sort of strange turn…

I blame the persistence of synchronicity…Not to mention my over-indulgence in literature over the previous 12 months that was full of puzzles, holes, enigmas and the like.

Writing feels like it did a decade ago before the madness and strange paranoia of 9/11 and all the subsequent actions that came from that event, real or otherwise.

As human consciousness becomes more and more uncertain, my writing becomes more and more uncertain. Fragmentation and illusion become bigger and bigger themes. Confusion in the face of fragmentation and illusion still plays a major role, even though I feel more at peace with the craziness of the world everyday. Or at least I tell myself that before my dreams give way to nightmares.

The future of literature is just as uncertain as the world we inhabit, if for no other reason literature has taken on a new face. One need only read the works of Roberto Bolano, David Mitchell,and Mark Danielewski to see that. The experiment and zeal of writers like Joyce and Borges have taken on new dimensions in the new millennium, which is refreshing as it is strange and beautiful at the same time.

The coming decade, which has already felt different, has given way to more and more thoughts that seem to transcent this realm; either that or I daydream too much. Being grounded in reality has no flavour to me, but like everyone else,I must tolerate the mundane and banal. I must learn to resist the temptation to escape my own mind.

More later…

111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321