no Language to call my Own



So, if I can't say it here, where else can I say it (but at night, under the covers)?

I've got no language nor style of my own. After reading Philip Sherburne on Sasha Frere-Jones in the New Yorker I have realised, well, I am confessing, at least, that I have no style. I lack distinctness. I lack succinctness. I lack the American hammer. I lack Canadian diplomacy. I become blunt or too ambiguous. Too political. I can't introduce the context yet the context eats me up. Metaphor runs away with me, like I read something, and I write like its seeped through my fingers like a sonic symphony, all that alliteration bowled up in becoming utterly unreadable, philosophical references that are far too pretentious for anyone to care, my own neologisms without explanation, a big pile of self-immolation, self-erasure, and here, now I sound like whomever I have been reading recently, myself included in some recursive mash-up of self-referencing, cross-spinning, recursive bowling syndrome. My sentences are too long. And I have no sense of humour.

All of this is wrong.


posted. Thu - March 4, 2004 @ 10:21 PM           |

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