Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Under rug swept

Yesterday I was thinking about the things I don't like talking about, writing about, thinking about. Things I pretend do not exist, things I pretend are of no consequance (as long as nobody notices them). Things that make me feel uncomfortable or guilty or awkward or worthless. Things that would make the blood and meat of any good piece of writing - any good depiction of reality - I avoid. Money, sex, injustice, sickness, senselessness, envy, greed, fear, unfulfilled dreams, failure, deterioration, death. Justification and entitlement.

Then in the Smudge Gallery at Spitalfields, I ran into a reproduction of graffiti artist Banksy's "Sweeping it Under the Carpet."

Then I realized, not talking about something doesn't make it go away, disappear. Things you don't talk about make what you talk about less real, what you write about less deep. What is hidden robs what is displayed of part of its truth. Sterile and shallow. In the end, nobody gives you a prize for being that spotless.

People discount blogging as "public confession." There are things in our lives, however, that we can't even confess to ourselves. We just overlook them completely, we don't talk about them even in our heads. Self-censorship prevents one from capturing and depicting reality, one is then left with abstraction -bare bones- and other people's stories.

However disconcerting it is, facing reality with all its details and facets, inquiring beyond what I think I already know is the only way to something real.

1 comment:

Jerusha said...

arrrgggh!!! doesn't this stuff really get to you??!? i hate the fact that i'm like that, although a lot of people are, i guess!! Again, this is another thing which makes me ill... horrible.