On Writing (Loud Mental Note 3)

Posted as response to:


I was bored, and tired, and thinking.

“Writer and author are one, it is only the definition of an audience, and the response of that group, that define the value and function of the written word.

The writer is the conscious soul. They who write are required by their expression to be aware, and to be aware of that awareness itself. They are driven to express this awareness, and likewise expand it. The body aware of the mind, the ink aware of paper, the meaning aware of the word. The writer is the summoner of essence from the deep unconscious spaces between time and occurrence, and the sculptor who crafts the finite forms of his language to make manifest that initial awareness to others and to themselves make whole revelation they have thus known.

Authorship insinuates a collective body of works guided by collective themes and synergy of applied styles by a writer, (or merely an attempt at cohesion by the audience) to convey the themes of their central voice to the waiting ears of the public soul; and thus by cohesion, and public awareness of this cohesion, decided is the value of the Author and their works to discourse as a whole.

Writer and Author can never collide. They are one. The Writer is the vessel, and the Author is the voyage reflected on, the Reader takes a ride, and the ripples are the manifold discourses the Journey of letters creates in vast seas of time.”


About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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