Manifesto [[2002]] Attempting to introduce new forms into language; attempting to empty out the already existing forms. Creating clutter without violence; sweeping away clutter left and right. Emptying thought::::and then dumping this onto screens; or dumping out that which is empty; or is there nothing ever really there? Not hiding from anyone; well hidden::::within the person one really is::::like a force::::a new form created to enhance communication between the soul and the being::::a force which feeds them both and yet is simply a path. And people see it. Not as honesty::::which is easily acted, but consumes the whole being::::given out from a much deeper sted::::is fully communicated::::unmistakably. The internet is the erasure of 'publishing' all together. For with it publishing becomes an information object, instead of remaining a complete object unto itself, capable of enlarging 'information.' And even at this early stage in the process::::while one clings to the old dying hand of what it means to publish, one can already feel that other newer form quietly replacing it. A writer can just set up a website::::set their work on a stage, and collect donations from those who wish to support them by downloading their poems and sending in a penny each. The economics of being a writer becomes that of street beggars and performers::::remember the mad Campana rushing around the town trying to sell his little books of poetry, often throwing them down in despair? Turns out he wasn't mad at all::::but simply acting ahead of his time. The other, opposite, method, is like Mark Twain going door to door gathering subscriptions, as if for a newspaper, creating locks and keys to access his things and running a business. This has nothing to do with the craft of writing, unless one believes the commonly held belief that advertising copy and marketing are in reality the major forms of literature today. Pop songs which appear to be merely jingles meant to generate cash::::a popularity contest::::have supplanted what we used to call 'poetry.' No one denies these songs can come from the heart. The songs are beautiful::::poetry is in the hands of true poets. Best thing is, this is a universal poetic form::::better lending itself to the evolution of world peace than that older form of poetry. One writes, for the most, within that little realm of literature which clings to a rich past because the present it itself has brought about is so damaged, busy at work trying to repair the damage while being outnumbered by those who busily continue the destruction. Our position as beggars is much more powerful. No longer slaves::::chained on the one arm by popularity::::on the other by hope, chained on the one leg to an iron ball, and the other rope-tied to the neck of a wild horse... While all the writers in the world slowly change over to this beggar model:::::the real value of the internet increases. Librarians becomes scouts and guides::::literature that is instant, available to all. Literature will become not a thing which is being published::::but an object which exists and expands::::like the human soul. The reader relating to literature as a relative, not as a consumer. Then, and only then, can literature::::unbound by territories, released from grief::::transform into that which it has never been::::that which it must become::::the guiding force to set humankind on the path to peace. We must create utopia::::we already possess the idea. Pop songs can facilitate its creation::::point us there. But the groundwork, architecture and construction must all be accomplished by this new literature, rendered by beggars. William Fairbrother, Copenhagen, 2002 BEGGAR... Why does zen Buddhism, Pure Land Buddhism, and the like, choose begging as their primary mode for survival::::and incorporate this doing into the very fabric of their existence? Because nothing on Earth is more difficult than being a human being in need and asking for help? Is this all a male ritual of subterfuge? Or is it for the purpose of expounding a correct attitude?::::no matter what station one holds in life, we are all begging, we're all beggars::::it is not about food and building, it is about survival. And why not cut through all the crap::::the strings attached to earthly gods such as money and power and loss (thus cancer)::::survival? A true beggar offers nothing for sale. Nothing but the survival of his skin. This is how compassion blossoms. So one's writing becomes nothing::::of no value::::these labors of love::::works of art::::are reduced to nothing::::perhaps best imagined as an absence (Blanchot), or following an earlier thread::::the literature one writes is patches of one's flesh::::torn off::::regrowing::::torn off::::over and over. No pain. A certain numbness involved::::exactly equal to that necessary in order to beg out of a desperate need in the first place. |