Dear Jill,
What a lovely and thoughtful letter from you. I am overwhelmed by responding. I'm in a very strange place with writing and with education right now, not understanding my place within or in relationship to either (oh boy - when do I?). The questions you raise are ones that I am always struggling with on some level.
I am trying to keep this letter conversational, not belabored. I'm not gonna think too much before responding. I just want to engage with these questions very, very directly; very honestly!
I like these unanswerable questions you bring up in relationship to Lingis, and that we discussed (or attempted to) in class: what is poetry? How does living a life in poetry differ from living a life where poetry is suppressed or not present? How are we all poets even if we have never written a poem? I find myself facing so many unexpected anxieties in response to these questions. "Living a life in poetry" seems to have the capability of effacing the importance, the necessity, of writing as an act; and instead valuing something else entirely (the life inside poetry, perhaps something that can be conceptualized as being participated in rather than being made). I suppose the question causes me anxiety because I am constantly struggling with this dialectic between "being" and "making". How important is it to "make"? Is it possible that "making" only distracts us from the important labor of "being", and of loving (perhaps this is "the life inside poetry")? If we're all poets without writing poems, why write a poem?! In other words, is writing, with all of the isolation and sacrifices that it often requires, "worth it"? Is it of value? What do we have to give up of ourselves to undertake it? On the other hand, I am frightened of falling for the creature comforts of contentment over a deeper, more difficult (and perhaps more rewarding) work. (Aka the common tension between mediocrity/contentment vs "greatness", as skeptical as I am of that term). I am still convinced that great work is difficult, that it requires something of us, that we can't engage in it for "free". There are always sacrifices and costs. In what way, then, can we make the work of writing contiguous with the larger work of being and loving (as opposed to somehow in opposition to each other, as I sometimes see them)? I don't know how to resolve this question for myself, except for that I need to find a better way of answering for myself not what poetry is, but what it does. I think of Baldwin in Amen Corner - "love, and never count the cost". His work was obviously continuous with his lifelovework. For you these types of labor seem to be very linked, as well - poetry helps you "live a more satisfying or at least aware life".
A lot of these questions, for me, center around labor: what is an act? What is writing as an act? Realizing that writing is only one act in a world of endless acts- this is dizzying and beautiful. I think the tension of writing is somewhere between this infinite possibility and the (disappointingly, for me) finite self.
Also, to answer this question of how is living a life of poetry as opposed to a life where poetry is suppressed or not present? There's a politics underneath this question, and some of my wondering on whether writing is “worth it” at all belie a massive kind of privilege. I think of Pietri's line about awakening to the “latino poetry of their souls”. As intangible as all of this is, it's obvious that some kind of poetry is very much a requirement for life, for survival. And that this incredible source of power is often repressed by the powers that be, who are aware that this specific kind of deprivation renders communities weak and defenseless. I am also reminded of a public art project I did awhile ago. People would tell me what they were struggling with, briefly. I was writing spontaneous poems for them while we sat in bed together. Then they had to read their own poem aloud to me. The interactions I had with self identified artists were of such a different quality – so much more yielding and intense (for the most part). And I realized how lucky I've been to be surrounded by these brave souls my whole life and never realized how different that commitment can make one. I don't want to glorify the artist class, but I do want to be grateful. And with that I'll have to move on to your next questions, or else I'll never get through this letter!
. . .
What am I anxious about? My relationship to writing is fraught right now. Writing has always been a pretty big part of my identity, but I don't feel a compulsion to write anymore (or at least not right now). While I don't buy into (or at least try not to!) the romantic idea that artists make work because they "have to" and are "overcome" with some abstract thing called "inspiration" - this lack of drive to write does have me feeling confused. I think I used to write to survive, and I no longer use writing in this way most of the time. Honestly - I'm not sure why I write anymore. I want to love it and to find in it some kind of joy that I can't find anywhere else: some kind of life force or life-giving. I want it to feel deeply important and moving - as in, the process is alive. But it just doesn't, or does only fleetingly. I think it's really important not to be too self-satisfied as an artist, but I miss the assurance I had when I was younger. I really felt that my work was important, that writing was a kind of calling or vocation, etc. That I even had something called a “work”, for that matter! I don't have any idea how to reclaim that, or if I even need to. I have been thinking lately about the "right path" so many religious folks feel that they are attempting to travel. I don't believe in "a god" but I am fascinated by this sense of justice and righteousness; and what is striking me recently is the revelation that so many of these folks have deep crises of faith and feel that god has left them. (Mother Theresa's recently revealed struggles with her faith are so fascinating). I actually find this really related and relevant to the process of writing. Sometimes we're left in the dark. Maybe even most of the time. Rumi: "imagination is like feeling around in a dark line or washing your eye with blood". There's so much faith required for the work. I suppose my anxiety is about faith, of a kind; where one finds the strength for it. And that's also my excitement: where these dark hours might lead us, what trying to find more discipline in writing might bring. I am trying not to be too focused on what I write but how I write. Obviously writing well is important, but I'm in this very transitional place.
Paulo Freire - love it. Have been meaning to read Pedagogy of the Oppressed forever. I've been really critical of institutional learning all my life, having dropped out of school at 12. It's hard for me to be in college, and this last year in particular has been rough. I feel very acutely all that I have had to give up and compromise in order to get my degree. I will be graduating with not a little bit of sadness. A lot of my time here I've been encouraged to do work that was less challenging and less imaginative. I think that getting a degree can be important and I'm glad that I'll have one, as a weirdo-artist and woman. But I hope that I can de-school thoroughly, and continue to work as an autodidactic at heart. I absolutely agree with Freire in this definition of knowledge as a restless seeking and re-invention. Schools so often cauterize this process, in their demand that learning must never be wandering. What I do find lovely about schools such as Lang is their clustering of wonderful minds and people. Of course this "community" is also part of what I hate about schools - community outside of the institution is becoming harder and harder to find. These resources are really hoarded, they don't belong to everyone. And the more harried and money-strapped people are, the more dependent they become on the institution, and the less time there is to create alternative spaces for idea sharing and knowledge seeking. I heard Penny Arcade speak awhile back and she mentioned that "even the underclass...even the criminal class...has intellectuals". Growing up poor in the highly articulate culture of Boston; I found this to be true, and was so glad to hear someone affirm it. But I think it's becoming less and less true, that spaces for intellectual and creative exchange are contracting.
. . .
"Human beings are not built in silence, but in word, in work, in action-reflection" – yes, yes, yes! What does this have to do with writing/poetry? Everything, everything. This IS writing. Wendy Walters was recently talking about the physical act of writing, how it actually changes your thoughts, the quality of your thoughts. It's not the same as thinking in your head – you have to put your hand in motion. I think about this a lot – the “kinetics of intellection” as another one of my teachers put it. All knowledge-seeking is in motion, I think. And I can't think of any better reason to write than in opposition to this stasis of “silence” that Freire speaks of. I don't actually see the Lingis quote in opposition to this. In effect, he's saying the same thing: laughter is older than “competency”. We laugh when we fumble along, emerging, learning; engaging in the world as deeply as toddlers do (tasting, touching, falling, discovering). Laughter is (or can be) a kind of speech: perhaps poetry is a laugher-speech. I don't know enough of Lingis to figure how he intended it, perhaps not politically as Freire obviously does in his work, but I find it useful or meaningful in a similar way.
So, I suppose the question for me is how to develop a process and a relationship to the work that is imbued with faith, and fumbling, and emerging: this oppositional speaking or even oppositional silence, this sacred kind of wandering? To engage in a work that reaches out into the world and does or makes or is something useful and important there? And, also, how to engage with this question of “is art making 'action?' ” I would love to unequivocally say yes! But I think that that “yes” has to be earned, it is absolutely not a given. I am plagued by the opposing feeling(s) that I don't write enough and that to write enough would be an unforgivable self-indulgence (even if a difficult and sometimes self-punishing self indulgence). What would it mean to write generously? Or to write for (but not on top of/over/or instead of) someone else? To write in the service of being/loving/acting/re-inventing/justice-seeking? without submitting the work to dogma or lowering it to the level of propaganda? (I find a lot of directly political poetry falling prey to sentimentalism/cliche/or even a kind of fetishization of “the poor” or “the working class” that I think is really dangerous, trite, or just not useful...).
Whew, that's it. No more looking at screens. Thank you for the invitation and I hope to continue asking with you and everyone this semester.
Best,
-Aria
