Letters from the Depths of Solitude (The Forty-Sixth)
What my incessant writing taught me is that everydayness is a legitimate field of wonder and inquiry. Imagine hundreds of evocative pages filled in with descriptions of boredom and the mundane. Out of everydayness there emerges the heroic, the marvelous, and the fucked up. Nauseating marvel of the everyday.
You with your cosmic solitude absorbing worlds and galaxies in cuffs of shiny stars, blank-mapped lands inhsbited by canineheaded antipodes and murmuring mermaids; the mundane is a paramount paradigm encompassing all. It’s a Ptolemeian Catholic world preceeding Copernican revolution; the hall of the library adorned with seraphic spherical models of atoms as latter were conceived by Democritus the Abderite.
If I may be permitted but a suggestion, your mundane is only such for you, for all others it’s a land of which they know nothing. Unless you undertake a task to reveal, they don’t have access to your memories or your musings, you are absolutely, ideally obscure. Transform your everydayness with your writing; you won’t ever have anything better or radically other than the current moment which is always at your disposal, waiting for you to command it, to master it, to transmute it. Put on your alchemic gloves and alter the nature of elements.
(Written in a car on red lights.)