Juzzle, Would, Brudge

Tell me Writer, how hard do you love a good list?

Up the hill I went, Seeing every blade of grass and every pebble very clearly. Then I was in among the trees where the air seemed made of shadows and the spaces were all twisty. The trees were all somehow crippled-looking, wrong in their shapes. The ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen branches and all kinds of rubbish: rusty tin cans, a rotting car seat, used condoms, crumpled empty cigarette packets, a broken suitcase full of pulpy letters with rain-blurred hand-writing, a lady’s shoe, and soggy newspapers from years ago (Hoban 1996:52).

Hoban, R. 1996. The Trokeville Way. New York: Knopf

Richtmyer-Meshkov Instability

Secant time. You can do that. You are a writer, after all. You can make anything happen.

From playwright Julie Goodall (1997:235):

She knocks over her cup. AUDREY jumps up to wipe the table. ISABEL indicates no.

ISABEL: If you were a fly you’d see that in slow motion. They’re so tiny, they perceive smaller amounts of time than we do. Smaller than a second. I saw it on TV. You knock over your cup. It sees the coffee pour out like a slow waterfall. Or lava flowing down. Hitting the table drop by drop. And single drops fly up to make a crown. Small units of time. See, Audie?

AUDREY nods.

Writer, would you like to stop time. See the moment. Is there collision? Is there crown? Is there crater?


Goodall, Julie. 1997. ‘Texas, Queensland’ in The La Mama Collection: Six Plays for the 1990s. Sydney: Currency Press

What we think becoming, others call unseemly

Again, have you never perceived the neck of the dove changing colour so as to assume a countless variety of hues in the rays of the sun? Is it not by turns red, and purple and fiery coloured, and cinereous, and again pale, and ruddy, and every other variety of colour, the very names of which it is not easy to enumerate?

Philo of Alexandria, On Drunkenness 173

What can we be sure of?

What can we be sure of about our writing and about ourselves as writers?

Is our writing good? How do we know?

Are we brave writers? Do we write hard and clear?

Aenesidemus (founder of Pyrrhonian Skepticism, 1CE) was a member of Plato’s Academy led by Philo. Frustrated by dogmatism in the Academy he developed a foundation for the idea that the judgements and knowledge we claim about things is dependent on a series of contingent and changing conditions. For example, people perceive the world differently to other animals, people perceive the world differently to each other, our own bodily senses offers us differing perceptions of the same thing and so forth.

For Aenesidemus, this flux means we cannot unconditionally confirm most of the claims we make about the world, ourselves and others. We can say some things that may be true in particular circumstances, but nothing holds true outside the conditions, or modes, he describes.

What happens if we see our writing as the neck of a dove? Letting it change in the light; seeing with all our senses, not restricting ourselves to the narrow mutterings of our internal one-eyed critic.

Can we now sit and write?

What can a phenomenologist see when they look at the world?

Husserl talks about gegebenheit when describing the process of perceiving something in the world. In translation to English we usually use the word ‘givenness’. Givenness illustrates two aspects of the world. It is a quality of that which is given, or perceived, as well as the act of it being giving.

Givenness has a generous, immediate and egalitarian quality. It is a process of offering rather than exchange or ‘having’. The world perceived ‘displays’ and ‘contains’ givenness. It is a condition. It is not ‘displayed’ for us to have, nor are we asked a price for it.

Givenness is a quality of the process of being. The givenness of a tree is not hidden nor delayed from our perception, it is immediately present. The givenness is neither reserved for certain types of creatures or those with endorsed qualifications. It is there for all and every and always.

If you look you will see that the world gives itself to you. You don’t need any documented credentials, or socially endorsed status, or sanctioned knowledge. You don’t have to be a celebrity, or a person with a title, or CEO of McMeaters.

The whole world is given to you; how will you describe what you perceive?

 

Image: Delegation admiring Tom Bass sculpture ‘Ethos’

 

[Buy me a coffee]