Is This What You Meant by Formless?

How about i ust staryt by tyr[ng with y eyes closed

That wasn't bad.

I can't think, or process. Those things are just synonyms for each other.

I keep telling myself I'm going to give up writing.

It's a bad habit. Like a heroin addiction.

Okay maybe not that bad.

Why the double spaces?
It's looks better.

The red lines under the words I've misspelt at the top annoy me.

Four red dots under the word "ust"

And again just then.

Writing is hard.

Not shit.

Re-reading can be harder. I rarely identify with it again.

But I can't edit because it not long feels like my work.

Crash. I've stopped.

Space.

Hold on I need to put another song on on you tube.

Dark Space

I see my hand in the dark,
Watch my fingers move in
the pitch black.
The curtains shut, the cover
over head.
The heat and motion...
alone...
too many pauses...
Feeling space;
with that other sense.

What's Form Go To Do (Go To Do) With It

About a year ago, I was part of a conversation where somebody said: 'Poetry is just used as a warm up to prose.' And I was outraged. I thought it was the most closed minded thing I'd ever heard. Poetry is not just an exercise writers use so as to make their prose better. It, in no way, comes second to prose or is beneath it in anyway. It is a delicate art which in many ways is far more beautiful than prose. While prose is certainly a better medium for writing realism and, arguably, is a better way to frame a narrative. Prose and poetry are both just as important in terms of literary form as each other, and while writing poetry may make you better at writing prose, this is just as much the case in reverse. I'm sure writing prose would make someone a better poet, practice helps any writer. But this got me thinking, about literary form as a whole. And then simply about form in terms of expression. Why does a person, a creative individual, choose poetry to express their love, or prose to write their grand narrative? Why art or music, or drama or film? Where does photography come into the mix? What about comic books? The question of form has begun to baffle me. If I were to explain what a poem is to an alien would they understand at all. Or would it just seem a very convoluted means of expression. Why not just say what you feel. Where is the line between art and communication. Where does a tweet end and a haiku begin? How do we rank the forms, in term of impact, clearness of message, the emotions they can incite? I’m sure all these questions have been asked before, but not by me, so I’m going to try and write some of my thoughts on form. 

As I was first coming to learn about literature I was taught, not quiet so outright but pretty much without exception, that there were three forms of literary expression: Prose, Poetry and Drama. They weren't necessarily separate, they all borrow from each other and can mix together quiet easily. Visually this is how I imagined it:

For me, a writer like Shakespeare would be placed somewhere just left of Drama, as he  sometimes write sonnets into the dialogue of his plays, therefore showing poetic influence in his work. Or the victorian Dramatic monologue, which was like a soliloquy, but written as a poem, would probably be in the middle of the two. In the dead centre of the triangle, they’d be works like ‘The Waves’ by Virginia Woolf, which she herself described as a hybrid of these three forms, or ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce, who borrows literary devices from every form. Some novels use very poetic and symbolic language, putting them lower than the very top of the triangle. And so on. And thats all I thought there was to it, every piece of literature could be placed somewhere on the graph. At least that’s how I saw it in my head, in reality it’s obviously much more complex than that even if you limit form to these three forms. And that was that, I went about my life happy to think that it all tied up so neatly. 

But then recently in another conversation I asked: 'What is the best literary form?’ I was baiting for an argument but I got a response close to this: 'Poetry, Prose, Drama, Comic Books, they're all as important as each other'. I agreed of course so there was not much of an argument at all, but two words got me thinking; comic books? I've always argued that comics should be seen as literature. I shout people down, talk about key examples and talk about how when the novel first came about it was ridiculed in a similar way. But, it's never entered my brain that there are four distinct forms of literature instead of three. But how does that fit onto my head graph? My initial thoughts are below:

But, I don’t agree that comics are a straight hybrid of art of and prose. There is much more to them than that. There’s a preciseness to the words that is similar to poetry. And the link between visual and  dialogue is something we see in drama. As well as this there are unique features. I’ve recently been reading ‘Understanding Comics’ by Scott McCloud, he explains how there is something very different in the way time passes in a comic that doesn’t really come from anywhere else. Besides, some early examples of comics predate the existence of the novel. So to say it is simply the bastard child of two other forms is a bit to simplistic. I debated added a venn diagram about how the five (including art) intersected in my head, but then I thought it would probably get a bit complex. But in this decision I came to a small conclusion,  all of these forms, and more, flow into each other a lot less neatly. Poetry has it’s influence on musical lyrics, but its an auditory form. Drama lead to film in a very obvious way, but film as since evolved a lot since then. As much as I’d like to make it so, form is not that easy to organise. 

However, another question I want to ask is this: Can something be formless? I’m looking around the room I’m sitting in and can’t find something nearby that is formless. There is a newspaper full of ‘articles’, a ‘letter’ from the gas company, and a take out ‘menu’. What is formless. Is that even possible. Is a conscious hybrid formless, because it doesn’t stick to one specific form. No not really. Taking the early examples of Joyce and Woolf, they are both published and read as novels. And Dramatic Monologues are read of poetry. Shakespeare’s plays are still plays even with poems inserted inside. So what is formless. Is that even possible. Surly anything with a purpose has a form. And everything has a purpose. I mean if I just aimless write words one after the other, does that have form? To me it does, to me its a poem with a statement about form. By trying to be non deliberate, I’ve been deliberate. I can’t thing of a way to write, or create, something formless without it then ascertaining a form. Why even get caught up on form? Why not just create, and land on the form that you land on. What’s more important, form or content? Well thats an age old question. But how do people actually answer? Would Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 be as powerful if it were written in prose: “I would compare you to a summers day, but your much better than that,” just does not have the same ring. However, does this work in reverse. Would “You’re okay, a pretty average girl” make a good sonnet? I’m going to say it probably would not. 

I imagine that part of the reason for peoples choice in form comes down to the reasons any of us choose to be what we want to be. I was never good at art, so that was never a form I choose. However I choose to write, and worked on it, and am still working on it. The specific literary form I choose for a piece seems to fall into place naturally. Sometimes I begin to write something and think it would work better in a different form, often its that an idea doesn’t lead itself to being as long as what I thought it would be. I don’t know if this is the case for everyone, whether what the form to use comes naturally or not. And historically if a new form came about, or a new movement within a form, it came about due to necessity. Art had lost interest in realism by the time it turned to the abstract. So maybe this is the case with form on a personal level as well; I need to get this idea, this image, this message, out of my head, and in putting it down the form comes without really thinking to much. Even more complex forms, like sonnets, seems to come naturally. As I write, I think, okay this is turning into a sonnet. And of course I have to put conscious effort in to get the rhyme scheme and syllable count right, but there is always a moment where the poem almost tells me what form it wants to be in. 

Interestingly, Scott McCloud writes about the creative process in 'Understanding Comics'. He describes how the process contains six steps: 1) Idea/Purpose, 2) Form, 3) Idiom, 4) Structure, 5) Craft, and 6) Surface. However, he writes that often a creative individual begins at 'Surface', which is to say the superficial elements of a work. 'That's a pretty picture but what does it mean?', is essentially what he means by this. We may fall in love with writing novels because we read one which we can recognise a certain amount of polish in, a description we find particularly beautiful, or dialogue which sounds in our ears. He also writes that sometimes the idea, a core motif or ideal, can come last. I might have a novel, with a chapter by chapter structure worked out, key descriptions in place, which also fits a genre (or idiom), but what is that novel saying? Maybe nothing. That does not make it bad of course, but it does lack something. His ideas on form in the creative process are intriguing, as he writes about how for some form comes first. Which in a more general sense it does, as I choose literature to express myself before I had many projects underway, but his perspective and theory is intriguing.    

Being inspired by tradition is also interesting in terms of form. And I think T.S. Eliot summed up the relationship between tradition and the individual pretty well in his essay 'Tradition and Individual Talent', in which he wrote that the creative individual should be well versed in all literature (I suppose is they are a writer) as far back as you can go. For the most part when it comes to mastering form the first thing someone does it look back. "How am I suppose to write like that?" I think when I read something I've really loved. But I think this only constructs are understanding of form. I perfectly understand the form of a sonnet, but I would never use Shakespearean language, therefore I have brought individuality to the traditional form. But I disagree that you need to look at tradition when trying to create something in your chosen form, at least not as profusely as what Eliot thought you did. If I were to explain to someone what a sonnet was, who had never heard of one before, and asked them to write one, they probably could, and if they continued to persist at it I bet they'd end up writing very good ones. Form can be invented, and probably allows for greater creativity. Even in terms of genre, the early fantasy writers such as Tolkien were revolutionary in there creation of something new. And yes they were inspired by earlier mythology,  but they were in no way recreating it in their own work.  

So, essentially… I’m not sure what my initial question was? Well essentially I think form is weird, I think it’s both quantifiable and not quantifiable. Both Specific and easy to manipulate. And that choose in form is involuntary, everyone is influenced by everyone else, and they can’t help falling in love with a form after they come to it. I could never imagine writing a longer piece I’m working on as a short story, or a poem as a song, or a play as a script for a movie. Maybe form chooses us. Maybe that’s just me. Maybe others think: okay, I’m going to write a poem, but what should it be about? I hope reading this wasn’t to much of a waste of your time, as I have no straightforward conclusion.  

It's Not Really About Music

When someone sings your soul,
When you put the song on repeat,
When you memorise the lyrics,
Download the song,
Watch the play count rise,
Add it to every playlist,
Continue to press repeat,
One more time, one more time,
The notes linger then move,
Sway from side to side;
Eyes closed to the sound,
Your hair rises,
Your skin feels tender,
You tell everyone,
That your soul has been sang.

Slowly. All At Once.

Sunrise is in 1 hour and 41 minuets.
The room is eerily quite.
I am in control. I am in control.
Complain to who, ask it why.
What is it, what's the question.
The sleep closes in. Silently.
It rushes through the brain.
A distant laugh, the knowledge.
The knowledge that.
That they're still out there, not feeling
that you.
That you.
What you feel for them. Be it anger.
It's anger. Fragmented anger.
Ask it why? Sunrise is when.
Sunrise is when.
Did I just crash. How do I?
It rushes through the brain.
Green eyes, staring out of the mirror.
They're angry of course. Be it anger.
Slowly turning, drifting, closing sleep.
Knowledge that they're.
Am I awake yet or am I dreaming?
Are you? I don't know anymore.
Please sir, tell us your location.
Something interrupts the quite,
the eerily quite.
Sunrise is when.
Sitting in the shadow, always at
night. Always in the day.
That you feel.
There is no scream. No birth.
Or death, or ending. It just is.
Complain to who? As it why?

Title Comes Last

All words seem cliche. All descriptions seem obvious. All reactions seem necessary. All characters feel repetitive. Yet life is endless. Is there a limit to the amount to original fiction and poetry that we can create from one language? Or all languages? Like, could you come up with some sort of algorithm or something. If so, are writers just endlessly trying to pump water from a well thats drying up, or is writing more exploratory, like we’re trying to find new continents in a world we have already filled in. We already flipped the narrative on its head so what else can we do. Did modernism and post-modernism ruin literature for the rest of us. Did the romantics make nature look bleak in comparison to their poetry. What do we even do now. Just swirl the images about until we have something original. Or did someone already do that? Is method something that has to be worried about, or inspiration, or writing tools. Am I less because I write on a laptop, as apposed to those before me who had nothing but parchment and ink.

There’s nothing left for me in the world that hasn’t already been seen by human eyes. So how can there be anything left that I can write about. But I know literary history doesn’t stop because I say it does. It keeps on going round and round, even now future classics are being written in dusty rooms by men and women who are passionately frustrated with themselves. I’ve got to get this out, I’ve got to get this out. But it’s wrong. The words aren’t right on the page. But to edit feels unnatural. I've edited this. Is it right all along then? Or am I just broken. Like a record playing skipping over lines, it can’t go back and fix the sound it didn’t create. Or should I just give up now. How can I give up writing while I’m in the middle of expressing my thoughts on writing. See the text just became aware of itself, and then it did it again in the previous clause. If you feel as you write, and imagine the future of the words, you can see them being pulled apart by literary students and scholars. Or the words lie empty on a dusty shelf. Or the words go extinct. No body cares, like all those messages that will never be read again, living in a phone somewhere. Destined to irrelevance.

(This is where a conclusion should go)

Is this irrelevance, as as I write this nobody has ever read it. Barely even myself as I don’t really look back for more than a few words. Although my eyes just flickered upwards and read the word “already”. There’s no end, there’s no end, there’s no end. What am I going to do with this when I end. I don’t know. Who am I talking to? Am I imaging a reader, sitting behind a computer screen, at a desk, or in bed on a laptop, or in a library. Did you just get shocked, because you were in one of those locations? Is that reader me, looking back on this at some point and thinking… I don’t know, the thoughts won’t be formed for an indefinite amount of time. What do you think reader? About anything, the sate of the world? Are you happy? I hope so. You seem nice. Am I sucking up to you?

I wish images could appear in front of my eyes like sight does. I wish my imagination was so vivid that I was blind. Or is it anyway? I was always very distracted in math class. Okay that was a lie I used to love math, until I didn’t. I feel like I’m beginning to tapper off now, slow down a little. I don’t know how I can sense this. Maybe I’ve gotten very far away from the begging. By about half an hour I suppose. I wonder how many words this is. Where I writing doesn’t have a word count. Tolstoy never had a word count, that much is obvious otherwise he might have cut back a little. Been a bit more conscious of what he was doing. But then we can never know that.

So we’re circling back to the conclusion. No good conclusions draws attention to that fact that it’s a conclusion, apart from that fact that its at the end. So maybe the conclusion should go in the middle, just to shock the reader a little bit, gives them a heads up of whats to come in the rest of the essay, like a midseason trailer or something. So these are the last sentences, so imagine sunsets or something. Is it odd that when I look at a sunset I wonder if the image itself is cliche, reality itself is marred by literature. Well it is in my head anyway. I was gonna end with that line but I instantly didn’t feel like it. Nor that one.

Purposely Untitled

Smoke lingers in a still room.
Dust swirls with the motion of bodies.
Water won't rippled without being touched.
Blossom falls with the gentlest caress.

Lives were still lived without being remembered.
Books still contain stories without being read.
Maths was right before it was proved.
But words had no meaning before they were said.

Lives to go on without acknowledgement,
or thoughts, or out lingering looks. A
gentle caress stays on the skin, still,
sublime.

Do deleted words still exist?
A life never led was once lived,
but only in your head.

She's mine, she's yours, she's ours.
She's everyone's.
She's nobody's. She's herself.
She's her own person.

You can't have. You don't want.
You still love. You still hate.
You long for. You strain for.
You gasp for. You ache for.

Slowly exhaling into a still room.
Moving together in a quick motion.
A still basin of water.
Arms reaching upwards to the trees.

An unread book on a dusty shelf.
A friend long forgotten.
A pen on a piece of squared paper.
That word makes no sense.