Bliss of Writing
Rhetor’s Word
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God’, John 1:1.
My poem called ‘The Words’ reads: ‘we made the sun/ out of words/ and the moon too’.
The word always echoes deep and mysterious, somewhat deeper than remembrance. In Sanskrit, Smrti means remembrance, reminiscence, thinking of or upon, calling to mind, or simply memory.
'Living backwards! Alice repeated in great astonishment. I never heard of such a thing! But there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways. I'm sure mine only works one way, Alice remarked. I can't remember things before they happen. It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards, the Queen remarked.' I wonder if it works both ways, like alternating current.
Language is nothing but a word while words are mere symbols. We write them with a pencil. Pencil originated from Latin penis (tail) and peniculus (brush) in the meaning of fine paint brush. Hence, we pencil ourselves. Language contains displaced events and characters and it is absolutely non-linear, although it can act linear for us. It can place things in the past, present and future tense, not time, but also in non-finite verbs and infinitive form. The Infinitive is neither tense nor time. It is a state of being. Perhaps, a state of mind. Still, there is meaning behind penciling. It helps understanding through symbols. The word is rooted in mind and comes from manas. It is a thought in Sanskrit and feels like a shadow of light that can take innumerable forms. The thought is elusive and abstract and absorbs meaning. So, the thought, language, i.e. writing, and meaning are all related to understanding. Across these attributes we gain knowledge and develop the humanity.
Writing manifests the language while language is a system of communication which uses finite set of elements for infinite number of combinations. Words probably mimic the ‘dnk’ structure, which embraces the language of human life. I see language everywhere in the nature. It holds the secret of altruistic combining that enables infinity with finite founding elements. This is how everything communicates with everything else, upholding the universal web, which universe is. I could easily reduce universe to a verse, and there I see rhyming to be the heart of everything; one force against another – in making a move waving itself across the lattice of space. Alike, letters can be reduced to consonants and vowels. Rhyming has its secrets; it can be easily ‘one’ echoing two aspects of itself, always on the move in a furtive entangled interacting, not necessarily touching. There has to be an element of attraction between them, for, they have to pertain the meaning of ‘one’. In words, it would read love. I always imagine love as two particles dancing one around the other in a free pattern, never parting in being aware of servicing the heart of the existence, even when eons afar. If love had not been stringently resolute, there would not have been me thinking, in the least.
In our world, rhyming is manifested as duality, disappearing into the bytes– units of digital information. Even so, modern technology does not feel that novel to me; it feels like an ancient force always imitating infinite pattern of existing in communicating. With writing here comes learning, educating, and emancipating of human thought. Writing expanded into recording and creating, taking the form of art like acting and reciting. Writing is the first thing we learn in school. It is a prerequisite to further learning. We start educating ourselves. In educating we start writing not only our history but all acquired knowledge. We start expressing ourselves through writing. We make primers, books and libraries. Finally, we mint poetry, breaking language constrains in being drawn to absolute rhyming.
The Power of Writing
Learning writing is an open-ended process. It perfects with practice. Writing has taken me to learning, inter alia, English language and literature. I have been developing writing skills in foreign language mostly through translating and reading different contents in English. I started thinking in English and my poems emerged in English. While writing them I was searching across vocabulary a lot and started going into the secrets of lexis, and beyond. This search led me to entering this course and writing extensively in English.
Throughout the course, I learned the rhetoric was not exclusively related to speaking. It makes the basis to composing and asks for sharp thinking, analyzing and thoughtful writing. I found Aristotle articulated three 'artistic appeals'—logos, pathos, and ethos to writing. I learned that by being true to yourself you become a credible writer. Yet, we are to balance the use of the appeals, especially in expressing emotions. I found the famous rhetoricians had rather simple thoughts on writing with Aristotle saying that it was a faculty of observing and Kenneth Burke's emphasizing that rhetoric meant cooperating through symbols. Brainerd Kellogg said the rhetoric was the study that was teaching us how to invent thought. I would only dare replace 'invent' with 'remember' in the latter. Now I know that individual writing becomes social writing and that a writer should preserve his rhetoric integrity that grows only with engaged reading. All in all, the writer is to gain ‘the wisdom of the world’ in writing. It goes without saying the high order thinking skills come crucial to the process, accompanied by ICT skills and enthusiastic yourself in writing.
Nevertheless, in everything I learned, I toughly come down to emotions and intuition again, and again. They make me, void of thinking, draw myself in unadulterated words. I see poetry as uttermost writing, as lullabies rhyming you into the absolute love.
‘Someplace /dotted /really deep /in the dark /the squirrel dreams /eeny meeny miny ale /catch a squirrel by the tail/ if she hollers let her go/ eeny meeny miny ail.’
My passion is writing poems. They come to me on their own terms. I find them everywhere. They are engaging and elfin and they communicate vibrantly, captivating me until I write what I sense. Then they go and hide. They love wooden socks and straw hats. Sometimes they come to me to tell me about their dreams. Other times I find them written in play with words until they unify. There are really many moments with them. They absolutely enchant me. They are the most beautiful notions I have ever felt. They are indescribable. They cannot stand any perimeters and they do not favor words either. They scarcely fit into them. They complain the words arrest them. So, I use as little words as possible. I make them lapidary and that pleases them, and me. ‘Having left the clay/ in abraded words/ for you I stayed’, ends up one of my poems. And indeed, I have always dreamed of having my poems inscribed into the stones and made into lithographs.
Above all, there is bliss in writing. I call it ‘coincidental writing’. It comes in a sophisticated manner, and while it can take any form, it usually comes as a word to me. It has jumped into my ethnography story and I spot it while revising – instead of ‘a bag of flour’ there written was ‘a bag of flower’. I was totally elevated, for, it was a sign I was being welcomed in what I was doing, in a symbolic way of course.
Under the Eternal Tree
Writing is meeting with my higher Self, whatever it may be, and exposing it in the form of words.
I watch myself sitting on a wooden bench under the eternal tree. It grows noble charm foliage that moves the oneiric frame free. I am shadowed by his flawless sensible boughs. I feel there is someone sitting next to me I am in deep love with. I am musing his presence. Latent moment is around us and I sense bright treeing space in its grace. I look down, and there on the garden table, I see unlikely note where someone wrote: ‘wind in sapphire earrings / rose afternoon burst forth into the abstract time/ counter afar curbed succumbed existence/ there were late august cupolas/ and the wind in sapphire earrings/ on the stone steps of summer outing/ behind the finite feeling/ there twinkled in the fort of dreams/ silver dotted giraffe across the distant island expanse.’ I try to remember what I read but I only brain red alive heart in a wooden duck. And I evoke a mirror reflecting an enticing hat and a silk tie placed close on a quaint hat stand; and a staffed little bird on the spur sticking out of the wall nearby the window washed by the summer light. There is still floret in the window and a drawn figure on the white love spread. The view floats nearby the stars into the abode of absolute love, outright.
Writing comes close to remembering absolute beauty. As imperfect and incomplete, the thought is drawing on displaced and absolute ourselves.
The word is a convertible communicator – in Ogham alphabet it would read ᚛ᚃᚑᚏᚇ᚜. The word can be turned into symbol, vibration, wave, frequency… It easily converts into any communicating medium. I like to imagine what is behind the word, any word, for, it feels it holds an attitude of unquestionably servicing the purpose. It feels the word operates the noblest virtues of all. It does not merely stand there for itself; it lives to preserve the meaning of the universe, by communicating. It stands for us. Word stands for love.
At last, I stay very enthusiastic about publishing my book of poetry in mother tongue and English soon and thus validating my words in public, for, an Oriental thought has it we are just but the characters of the ‘mother language’ helping in creating the meaning, dew drops so to say. It is absolutely thrilling to feel the meaning of life in understanding the role of writing, at least to me.
Rhetor’s Word
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God’, John 1:1.
My poem called ‘The Words’ reads: ‘we made the sun/ out of words/ and the moon too’.
The word always echoes deep and mysterious, somewhat deeper than remembrance. In Sanskrit, Smrti means remembrance, reminiscence, thinking of or upon, calling to mind, or simply memory.
'Living backwards! Alice repeated in great astonishment. I never heard of such a thing! But there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways. I'm sure mine only works one way, Alice remarked. I can't remember things before they happen. It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards, the Queen remarked.' I wonder if it works both ways, like alternating current.
Language is nothing but a word while words are mere symbols. We write them with a pencil. Pencil originated from Latin penis (tail) and peniculus (brush) in the meaning of fine paint brush. Hence, we pencil ourselves. Language contains displaced events and characters and it is absolutely non-linear, although it can act linear for us. It can place things in the past, present and future tense, not time, but also in non-finite verbs and infinitive form. The Infinitive is neither tense nor time. It is a state of being. Perhaps, a state of mind. Still, there is meaning behind penciling. It helps understanding through symbols. The word is rooted in mind and comes from manas. It is a thought in Sanskrit and feels like a shadow of light that can take innumerable forms. The thought is elusive and abstract and absorbs meaning. So, the thought, language, i.e. writing, and meaning are all related to understanding. Across these attributes we gain knowledge and develop the humanity.
Writing manifests the language while language is a system of communication which uses finite set of elements for infinite number of combinations. Words probably mimic the ‘dnk’ structure, which embraces the language of human life. I see language everywhere in the nature. It holds the secret of altruistic combining that enables infinity with finite founding elements. This is how everything communicates with everything else, upholding the universal web, which universe is. I could easily reduce universe to a verse, and there I see rhyming to be the heart of everything; one force against another – in making a move waving itself across the lattice of space. Alike, letters can be reduced to consonants and vowels. Rhyming has its secrets; it can be easily ‘one’ echoing two aspects of itself, always on the move in a furtive entangled interacting, not necessarily touching. There has to be an element of attraction between them, for, they have to pertain the meaning of ‘one’. In words, it would read love. I always imagine love as two particles dancing one around the other in a free pattern, never parting in being aware of servicing the heart of the existence, even when eons afar. If love had not been stringently resolute, there would not have been me thinking, in the least.
In our world, rhyming is manifested as duality, disappearing into the bytes– units of digital information. Even so, modern technology does not feel that novel to me; it feels like an ancient force always imitating infinite pattern of existing in communicating. With writing here comes learning, educating, and emancipating of human thought. Writing expanded into recording and creating, taking the form of art like acting and reciting. Writing is the first thing we learn in school. It is a prerequisite to further learning. We start educating ourselves. In educating we start writing not only our history but all acquired knowledge. We start expressing ourselves through writing. We make primers, books and libraries. Finally, we mint poetry, breaking language constrains in being drawn to absolute rhyming.
The Power of Writing
Learning writing is an open-ended process. It perfects with practice. Writing has taken me to learning, inter alia, English language and literature. I have been developing writing skills in foreign language mostly through translating and reading different contents in English. I started thinking in English and my poems emerged in English. While writing them I was searching across vocabulary a lot and started going into the secrets of lexis, and beyond. This search led me to entering this course and writing extensively in English.
Throughout the course, I learned the rhetoric was not exclusively related to speaking. It makes the basis to composing and asks for sharp thinking, analyzing and thoughtful writing. I found Aristotle articulated three 'artistic appeals'—logos, pathos, and ethos to writing. I learned that by being true to yourself you become a credible writer. Yet, we are to balance the use of the appeals, especially in expressing emotions. I found the famous rhetoricians had rather simple thoughts on writing with Aristotle saying that it was a faculty of observing and Kenneth Burke's emphasizing that rhetoric meant cooperating through symbols. Brainerd Kellogg said the rhetoric was the study that was teaching us how to invent thought. I would only dare replace 'invent' with 'remember' in the latter. Now I know that individual writing becomes social writing and that a writer should preserve his rhetoric integrity that grows only with engaged reading. All in all, the writer is to gain ‘the wisdom of the world’ in writing. It goes without saying the high order thinking skills come crucial to the process, accompanied by ICT skills and enthusiastic yourself in writing.
Nevertheless, in everything I learned, I toughly come down to emotions and intuition again, and again. They make me, void of thinking, draw myself in unadulterated words. I see poetry as uttermost writing, as lullabies rhyming you into the absolute love.
‘Someplace /dotted /really deep /in the dark /the squirrel dreams /eeny meeny miny ale /catch a squirrel by the tail/ if she hollers let her go/ eeny meeny miny ail.’
My passion is writing poems. They come to me on their own terms. I find them everywhere. They are engaging and elfin and they communicate vibrantly, captivating me until I write what I sense. Then they go and hide. They love wooden socks and straw hats. Sometimes they come to me to tell me about their dreams. Other times I find them written in play with words until they unify. There are really many moments with them. They absolutely enchant me. They are the most beautiful notions I have ever felt. They are indescribable. They cannot stand any perimeters and they do not favor words either. They scarcely fit into them. They complain the words arrest them. So, I use as little words as possible. I make them lapidary and that pleases them, and me. ‘Having left the clay/ in abraded words/ for you I stayed’, ends up one of my poems. And indeed, I have always dreamed of having my poems inscribed into the stones and made into lithographs.
Above all, there is bliss in writing. I call it ‘coincidental writing’. It comes in a sophisticated manner, and while it can take any form, it usually comes as a word to me. It has jumped into my ethnography story and I spot it while revising – instead of ‘a bag of flour’ there written was ‘a bag of flower’. I was totally elevated, for, it was a sign I was being welcomed in what I was doing, in a symbolic way of course.
Under the Eternal Tree
Writing is meeting with my higher Self, whatever it may be, and exposing it in the form of words.
I watch myself sitting on a wooden bench under the eternal tree. It grows noble charm foliage that moves the oneiric frame free. I am shadowed by his flawless sensible boughs. I feel there is someone sitting next to me I am in deep love with. I am musing his presence. Latent moment is around us and I sense bright treeing space in its grace. I look down, and there on the garden table, I see unlikely note where someone wrote: ‘wind in sapphire earrings / rose afternoon burst forth into the abstract time/ counter afar curbed succumbed existence/ there were late august cupolas/ and the wind in sapphire earrings/ on the stone steps of summer outing/ behind the finite feeling/ there twinkled in the fort of dreams/ silver dotted giraffe across the distant island expanse.’ I try to remember what I read but I only brain red alive heart in a wooden duck. And I evoke a mirror reflecting an enticing hat and a silk tie placed close on a quaint hat stand; and a staffed little bird on the spur sticking out of the wall nearby the window washed by the summer light. There is still floret in the window and a drawn figure on the white love spread. The view floats nearby the stars into the abode of absolute love, outright.
Writing comes close to remembering absolute beauty. As imperfect and incomplete, the thought is drawing on displaced and absolute ourselves.
The word is a convertible communicator – in Ogham alphabet it would read ᚛ᚃᚑᚏᚇ᚜. The word can be turned into symbol, vibration, wave, frequency… It easily converts into any communicating medium. I like to imagine what is behind the word, any word, for, it feels it holds an attitude of unquestionably servicing the purpose. It feels the word operates the noblest virtues of all. It does not merely stand there for itself; it lives to preserve the meaning of the universe, by communicating. It stands for us. Word stands for love.
At last, I stay very enthusiastic about publishing my book of poetry in mother tongue and English soon and thus validating my words in public, for, an Oriental thought has it we are just but the characters of the ‘mother language’ helping in creating the meaning, dew drops so to say. It is absolutely thrilling to feel the meaning of life in understanding the role of writing, at least to me.