I am quite struck, finally, by Pound’s proclamation in Guide to Kulchur, that one must bounce about not only the traditions of one’s familiar poetic predecessors, but also that of all other culture’s traditions, in that he or she “might acquire some balance in not mistaking recurrence as innovation.” For me this statement equates to one saying that the instantism of a close friendship’s laughter, such as a witty remark come to the shores of a random weekend debate, is, because of that universal consciousness we safely herald, truly an unoriginal recurrence; for are we not allowed to drape the schizo phonetically, are we going to tell a real schizophrenic that their perception of reality in place of a revealing memoir is more fiction and thus of another’s distantly constructed mind blaze? I speak of schizophrenia here in terms of imagination and cresting the otherness of self.
I have so often, as of late, tried to shave off my self-consciousness along these lines. I have tried to deepen the nowness of construction as opposed to question the integrity of expression. For instance, the relatedness of automatic writing to my own energetic blasts of prose is to me less categorized as a “writing through” than as a this-works-for-me-because-it-gives-me-to-the-reader moment. How is it that we can crank only solely from the past and thus forward, as opposed to raking the future in order to reel ourselves into it? Sure, the practices of narrative which embolden imagery or sharpen the acuity of familiarity may blast a monotonous lobby into larger and even more familiar space, but that element is more a writer’s incapability of newing an idea than an idea feeling new, then being linked randomly by a well read critic to the past as something refurbished or only half-recurrent.
Perhaps to quote Courbet:
“It is the duty of the human spirit to to work always on the new, always in the present, starting from acquired results. One should never begin anew, but proceed from synthesis to synthesis, from conclusion to conclusion. Real artists are those who take up an epoch just at the point to which it has been brought by the preceding periods. Going back is the same as doing nothing, it is a pure waste of time…Beauty is in nature and is met in reality under the most varied forms. As soon as it has been discovered there, beauty belongs to art, or rather to the artist who knows how to see it.”