3 – WRITING AISTHESIS

Whenever I begin writing poetry, I have a custom of imagining being humbly kissed by diamond creatures of unknown nature, it creates a muscle tension in my torso that allows me to distend Time a bit, and contract words as if they were movements. With prose, I tend to imagine a shadowy figure looking downwards into a calm ocean, above the water, but somehow drowning just with the sight.
Writing is an interesting variable to me, and perhaps the most interesting string of that variable is the relationship author-piece. As I call it: aisthesis – note, I use aisthesis instead of perception because this Greek word is often associated with unity, or commonly, synaesthesia. Is it astute to assume an authors subject of work is inherently important to them? Of course, writing takes energy, it siphons any disperse fragments of beauty you can encapsulate in a lifetime, it allows them to be dissected and then transferred into a piece bound to that beauty. I hold my poems and proses to low esteem, but they are deeply important to me, even when they’re just collapsed realities I insist on capturing.
To an author, a piece is a common extension of their being, a phantom arm trying to reach heights it can’t keep. Simultaneously by means of perception, it’s also the coldest face of our fragile beings, one we often conceal, one we are often ashamed of.
To me, it has always been presumptuous fear. My compositions are very much mine, and similarly to watching a son go to college, when I publish them, they are no longer mine. I’ve lost them, they are yours now, they can be bent and shaped freely, interpreted any way possible. They will be loved, hated, they might hurt someone or bring them solace, they can be held morally hostage or create ripples inside ones mechanical philosophy. In essence, they are living, breathing appendages of our humanity (like any piece of Art), and they can affect almost as much as we can, but they completely evade our control once they leave.
The sentiment is one of general abandonment. Have I abandoned my work, or has it abandoned me? I’ve often struggled with deep hatred towards compositions I’ve published, before and even immediately after I did it. In fact, I believe that if I didn’t hate most of my work, I wouldn’t be able to publish it. My poems that I do feel something for, I often say, are mine until my death. Even further, it’s also a sentiment of baleful induction – what previously was elevated within me, has now been tossed to the furnace like metal and scrap – and that inner incineration of my creations is nothing short of moral atoning towards something quite mundane: being a sensitive being.
To me, the aisthesis of my work is simple, they are feelings taken to a tangible, palpable form, and they are as volatile and bright-eyed as I am. They are everything I am, they are me, that’s why exposing them is (in turn) an action of self-exposition.

I wonder often if this is the general feeling of aspiring writers, or if anyone can see the absolute in this reflection.


Johnny

Hoje sou tudo no nada que sou, amanhã serei outro.

12 thoughts on “3 – WRITING AISTHESIS

  1. Really liked this. You write very well Johnny. Sometimes indecision keeps me from posting. Sometimes I post in spite of it. Then I still second guess my words and wonder if I should amend them 🙃. But I love to write. So I keep on.

    Liked by 1 person

    • That is a beautiful production of sentiment, Ellie. “But I love to write. So I keep on.” The punctuation gives it a general sense of hopeful exasperation, much akin to what I feel.
      It is exhausting, at times frustrating, and it can be draining above all else. But it’s beautiful, and we love it with the candour of a brushing tree. So we keep on.
      Thank you Ellie, you are generous in your compliment and I infinitely appreciate your presence.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. I completely relate to this: “I’ve often struggled with deep hatred towards compositions I’ve published, before and even immediately after I did it. In fact, I believe that if I didn’t hate most of my work, I wouldn’t be able to publish it.”
    Maybe this is what pushes us to always grow as writers. The flip side of looking at works we’ve created and thinking they’re terrible is some little hint of us believing we can do better.

    Liked by 1 person

    • It does indeed look like that, although only mechanically among the structure of those concepts. It’s more of a cosmetic similarity, or a more robust wording that say “I’m just preparing to feel more intensively”. I assure you no human sacrifices were made for my poetry (not that I’m aware of, at least), thank you for stopping by 🙂

      Like

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