Tell Don’t Show / That Thing (redux)

i.

The pith of the pang is what I pity. Nowhere is it written that this must be done, but I strive to do it nonetheless for fear of not doing it with empathy. What is it you say? It is simply this, this thing. This thing that is so easily overlooked. Don’t tell me how to see it, this thing. I can only see it the way my mind perceives it. This thing, the thing which is the subject of our consciousness, is a particular thing, that if it was not the subject of our consciousness would just be any other thing—ill formed and undefined in our minds. But not this thing—which is the pith, the perfect form of this class of thing. The apotheosis, the ideal of the thing. This thing is … well … just the right sort of thing.

ii.

I have to write what I have to write in the way I have to write it—because of the strictures and self-imposed parameters, because I have to read quickly—I have to write this way. I have to write everyday because of the strictures. I have to write everyday in some way because of the parameters. I have to write in my own way—because it’s my way, it’s the only way I know way. I have to write everyday, the man said, I write because I am unhappy—I write because it’s a way of fighting unhappiness, the man said. I too have to write this way—but it’s not his way, the man’s way—it’s may way. I have to write what I have to write in this way because it is my way—the only way I know way, and because of the strictures and the parameters—I have to write this way. It’s only one way of writing—it happens to be the way I’m writing. I have to write this way, because it’s the only way I know way. It’s not a popular way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a happy way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a beautiful way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a prosperous way, but I have to write this way—it’s the only way I know way, it’s an unhappy way, it’s not a sunny way, but it’s the only way I know way. I have to write this way because of the strictures and parameters way—this is my way, not the only way. It’s an unhappy way. I have to write this way. Thanks for reading this today.

What I’m Reading:

What to do
with these disordered herds
of words? I said I would
eat my words and do so, now
you see. He eats them, all
up. Greedily.

— James Schuyler / “The Dog Wants His Dinner”