The Isolation of Writing

What I've been reading (re-reading) lately:  Friendship by Blanchot.  It's strange, but I don't remember reading the part where he talks about Kafka, about the "uninterrupted writing" as an "unapproachable space."  This dream of writing, alone, for months at a time, that's my dream too.  I dream about it, but do I really want it?  No, I don't. Yes, I do.  Kafka (I've read his diaries too and also completely forget them) talks about entering the isolation of writing, not like a hermit, but "as a dead man."  The completion of his books are resolved "in and by interruption (under the spell of the fragmentary)."

I've long been quoting V. Woolf's: "...for interruptions there will always be."  What writer hasn't resolved to write in and by interruption?  Anything else would be mad.  Yet, hovering around me, that dream, the dream of a span of time, uninterrupted.  Maybe it's the dream I want, and what I need is to continue to fall 'under the spell of the fragmentary.'  Let's hope.  Meanwhile, the resolution to write as a dead woman, uninterruptable in my fragmentariness....

And the red typewriter?  It somehow belongs to the book I'm writing, to the character I'm writing.  It came painted red, by a previous owner.

Meanwhile, I've borrowed it.  Photographed it.  And even made it into a greeting card etc. which you could purchase here.  (My ImageKind link is also on the sidebar).

Meanwhile, listening to this album.  Sweet lyrics.



And longing, LONGING, for this exhibit.  Which is only up until end of January.