Apparently I write about what has been written before.
Arguably, some of the best books of our time have been written about the least creative of situations. The act of putting a sweater on. The sequel would of course be - Me and Hair: a tale of combing.
A couple of year ago (I wonder when I'll start saying "Many year ago" and look in pride at the time I've spent well and sigh at the sight of time wasted) I discussed the collective imagination. Not in a philosophical kind a way for I am neither prone nor apt for that sort of intellectual discussion but more in the spirit of my usual inquisitive curiosity. I like to discover things.
There are pyramids in Egypt and there are pyramids in Mexico. Architecturally different but structurally similar. The Greek and Roman gods played swap games with names but followed the same basic trends. Purepecha, a language of a central Mexico tribe, is most similar to the Swedish language.
A monkey put in a room with a type writer with a long enough timeline will eventually reproduce Hamlet to a comma. Conversely, if Durden taught us anything is that on a long enough timeline, the survival rate of everyone drops to zero.
Creativity occurs most easily in short bursts of passion. Creativity lies in a child's first laugh, every breath a potential hiccup or eek! or mixture of glee and slur.
So today I write a brief body. If I were to justify this entry I would say that the haphazard nature of my introduction* is meant to create a displacement of electrical impulses in the brain of the reader. A sort of exercise in jogging (sprinting) the mind. The sort of thing I think about when analyzing books. I read into things, reconstruct them, add my personal biases and then tell the world what the author was trying to say.
Why would an author ever tell you what he wants to say.
Magritte argued that his art was meant to be confusing. Art was sometimes just art.
Ceci n'est pas une ecrit. --> There. Creative. Right?
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