Episode
Steamed Fish
- Published
- Sep 23, 2024
- Duration seconds
- 551
- Processing state
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- https://javiertruben.substack.com/p/steamed-fish
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Summary
Since I quit drinking alcohol and smoking pot or tobacco to avoid running out of steam and finish sentences skidding at the top of the gravel voice, my journaling has regained the life it once had, which is a pleasant surprise and a valuable benefit. When I did thick spirals of smoke, my quiet thoughts were lost forever. Or worse, if possible, from the deep buzz only reached to the edge of awareness such bland trifles as "I smoke. And I draw the leak from my breath." Of course, with that trivialities, I missed out on the precious foam of the days and the hours that shape fiction in all its forms. Now, the only thing left for me is to read between the lines, to find out what I deliberately omitted because there is always more in what is quiet than in what is said. Before presbyopia and those bad habits took their toll on me, I wrote both correspondence and journals by hand, allowing myself be carried away fearlessly by the stream of consciousness, listening intently to the graze of the nib on the paper, as if someone were riding the waves with the intense fury and spontaneous imagination of a runaway horse. Unlike the great authors whose calligraphy is sheer shorthand, mine was so affected that frills became psychedelic a bit out of my control, a reflection of the sensuality that overcame me, the secrets and whispers of dangerous writing. Kundera rightly said that youth was the quintessential lyrical age. So, one day, I stopped writing by hand. The combative Japanese pen became a sort of Excalibur, the sword in the rock, waiting for the return of the true king. There was an old correspondent who complained bitterly and who, after much begging, managed to convince me to go back to paper and ink. But I felt a bit ridiculous feigning the frills that once effortlessly came…