Presence

"This is it, I think, this is it, right now, the present, this empty gas station, here, this western wind, this tang of coffee on the tongue, and I am patting the puppy, I am watching the mountain. And the second I verbalize this awareness in my brain, I cease to see the mountain or feel the puppy. I am opaque, so much black asphalt. But at the same second, the second I know I've lost it, I also realize the puppy is still squirming on his back under my hand. Nothing has changed for him."

-- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

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I hope I am a cautious reader. I try to keep one eye on the text and one on the whole. While I read, I am simultaneously thinking about what is happening now, and how it fits into the work as a whole. It is like enjoying an entree and thinking about dessert.

The above passage from Dillard surprised me. There is a passage in Bradbury's Dandelion Wine that deals with the same sort of awareness of Now; it occurs when the main character, a boy anxious for summer vacation, runs into a field and feels summer coming. He cannot explain it, he cannot pinpoint it, but at the same time, he knows it is there.

When I read, I am always skeptical of the book, especially if it was recommended to me. I repeatedly take stock in what's happened, estimating what the future holds, gauging, appraising. I am like an accountant working on a ledger, reworking the balance every few lines. I don't want any mistakes. I want to be sure I am not taken by surprise, because then I may as well read thrillers just for thrills. I may as well watch Saw movies. I want to see the work in my hands evolve in words, as species evolve in populations; to feel the story or narrative growing, referencing itself, like a living thing; to match wits with the author, ten thousand miles away, a century apart, and see what's coming.

And so, when I am surprised, the fact itself surprises me, and the double-decker is better than the single pattied burger.

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I look back into the text I am reading, and I find that it has not changed, that the words are still in order, the paragraphs are still indented. The content remains; my awareness is heightened. So now I cannot breeze through the language. I must chew it. I must reread a single word, marveling at the connection of syllables, the arrangement of symbols. I get stuck on a sentence, realizing the rhythm, bobbing with it. It is jazz in prose, improvised description. It is dancing on a floor with a million words, scanning and jigging, waltzing with English. It leads me and it follows me.

--

I write these words with only shadows of meaning in my head. The letters in the text box, the unindented paragraphs, the temptation to save and view the blog--to rewrite already--and the doubt that I have expressed myself clearly, all conspire to kill that jazz, that living from line to line. This is it, I think, this is the present, and what a simple joy to stop, see, try to conquer, to capture. It is the essence of photography and psychology and prose, wrapped up in pretension, presented online.

It is blogging.