I think it is worth reiterating - and I'm sure I've written about this before - that I am perpetually dissatisfied with my writings. Each paragraph, along with all of the concepts that are elucidated or at least implied in it, is constantly threatening to fall apart, or even blow up.
I am reminded of that old cartoon gag in which the protagonist is unfruitfully attempting to plug up some leak, only to have it burst forth somewhere else, and soon enough there is a deluge of uncooperative reality, as it were.
Reality is pouring forth in every direction, and all I can do is attempt to use the limbs and tools I have to plug up what streams I can, and arrange them into a communicable artifact.
And here it is: eventually you do just reach some limited artifact that is a finished work. I am inclined to obsessively poke, prod, and revise a given piece. But every artist - and I've found this in music composition - knows that you eventually have to stop, or you'll just spoil the damn thing. Finish it, and allow the transformative - and entropic - effects of the atmosphere take hold, as the piece is processed by others with differing perceptions and values.
Or maybe it will simply languish in a sealed room, I don't know! And there is that constant nagging doubt in the background: should I even be doing this? Is it a worthwhile project?
And the harder I work to surmount the limits of my self, to represent a reality so much larger than myself, then all the more this work asserts itself as an irreducible artifact of myself, with all of the limits that implies.
