aesthetic tweets

Since this isn’t an orthodox blog, i find it occasionally useful to analogously and poetically describe what it feels like to be posting information in this way, to the world wide intervoid, intentionally avoiding attempts to use traditional intermediaries (e.g. publishing houses) and techniques (e.g. self-promotion).  Here are some ways i presently think of it—

1. As aesthetic tweets. 
2. As a sort of modern urban male, somewhat better socialized, Emily Dickinson, stuffing her poems in an e-shoebox.
3. Mozart was well known for his scatological humour, which the conservative among us still find puerile and explain, as is typical, by applying various pathologies to it, without ever seeming to recognize that their need to pathologize could itself be seen as a pathology.  I wish to subvert this odd pathological game that art and society play—which as far as i can see doesn’t particularly serve either side—by directly aestheticizing the body.  Yeats’ famous line from Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop continues to instruct me here.
4. As a conscious experiment in biological aesthetics, using the means (technology, virtuality) that are presented to me by my given culture—that is, by taking the modern injunction of taking the body seriously ... seriously.  This experiment feels to me as a form of care.
5. A kind of syncretism of the particular social aspects which have primarily defined me—family (most notably child-raising), business, academia, religion, technology, love and art.
6. This is of prime interest to me now:  being receptive to and observing the results of my increasing dependence on non-literary art forms for creation.  After 30 years—a little too long, i think now, but such is life—of deep immersion in literature, of being nurtured and shocked by its powers, i currently pay scant attention to it as an input, instead requiring a new, what for me is a healthier and necessary, diet:  cinema, music, painting and its cousins.  Transforming sound and image to word, attempting to minimize myself as conscious intermediary, feels almost wholly different than transforming word to word.  It’s also an ecologically sound attempt:  i can obtain the requisite new inputs without travel, acquisition, drudgery, or the discord of social scrimmage (other than the relatively minimal purchase of film, gallery, gig tickets).  An odd kind of aesthetic efficiency, productivity.  I am, quite impossibly, striving for Shakespeare’s aesthetic efficiency, which still seems to me the paragon of purity, in literature at least.
7. As an enfolded linguistic kaleidoscope of the aesthetically filtered psyche, a journal of self-analysis which prefers not to use the present hegemonic (ah, there’s a word i haven’t used in a while) psychological concepts and terms but to grope for its own.
8. Footnotes and thanks to Lewis Carroll, William Blake, Borges, Joyce, Woolf, Heraclitus, Diderot, Jean Genet, Cervantes, Simone Weil, Jodorowsky, Schroeter, Teshigahara, Svankmajer, Bunuel, and a few hundred others who continue to help me cope with the glorious onslaught of existence.
9. A mirror of how one pieces together a unified identity through acceptance of the perpetually flowing grounded gaseousness of identity, how this piecing-together also is in a state of constant becoming the perpetually flowing.  That is, a way to mirror, to create a simulacrum of, the wholeness of being, which seems to be the primary task of psyche and art.
10. Some rooted blend of śūnyatā and samsāra.
11. An attempt (ultimately futile but necessary) to find a language which unites the languages (within English) that i have spoken ... a translanguage, a polyglottal unity.
12. No single aspect (utterance) is representative of the whole—all it can be (and not even this) is the representation of a fleeting feeling or thought—as even the whole (all i have written over the past 20 years) is not representative of the whole (the unutterable), even as the sum of all wholes does not equal the whole (interesting:  the analogies with set theory).  The whole is not seen, this the source of the attributes of god and the heart of humility.
13. Those who view this voice (the perhaps apparently rational voice [*though i tend to view it as the vernacular]) as more legitimate than other voices (the ribald, contentious, melancholic, absurd, fragmented, nonsensical, *speculative, *capricious, elliptical, world-weary, etc. [*i ignore for what should be obvious reasons certain voices, such as the pragmatic])—or another voice as more legitimate than this one—who want to grab a content scat from the art toilet and assert it as primary, as truth, or (horror!) even use it to prove something (about the world, me, themselves) live as far apart from the intent of my aesthetics as a rock from a feather.  Only when one contains within oneself all voices simultaneously—as in an orchestra—does even the shadow of truth begin to emerge.  So Shakespeare.  Is he Iago? Falstaff? Rosalind? Henry? Shylock? Cleopatra? Lady Macbeth? Cordelia? Jacques?  As Borges aptly points out, he is all and none.  The i is plural, the i is empty.
14. Isn’t any objection, recoiling, from such a notion of plurality rooted in a christian monism ... a fear that there is no supreme ruler ... out there, in here?  Our fear, in fact, of life?  Our need to erect hierarchies as hammers, rather than as utilities to achieve certain ends which serve life?
15. A travelogue on that elliptical ship called the heart.