It’s a topsy-turvy world, Proust’s is. Hopes dashed. Or else you possess and then you no longer want. Here I am writing this whole blog, hoping I can get my ideas out there, and now that I’m doing it, I’m feeling dispossessed. Like I’ve clung to this idea I’ve had- the question I’m asking- for so long, kept it hidden. Now a fair amount of it is out there and I’ve got nothing. No quiet little secret I’m carrying within. I’m half inclined to just erase all of this and forget I ever got going on it. Cause I’m feeling that Swann kind of feeling right now
“To think that I wasted years of my life… for a woman who did not appeal to me, who was not my type!” To think that I’ve wasted years of my life with Marcel Proust and he wasn’t my type. So many years.
That’s not really what I intended to say today. I wanted to talk about camera obscuras and rooms, and projections, and how we perceive things. Then something about horizon lines, perception in a broader sense, perspective in a broader sense, how it’s not just about rooms and signs as in my whole theory about the Cygne de Cambrai and the Sign of the Room, about rooms and signs in relation to time.
But I’m moving into ‘the order of years,’ the world of 2024-beginning tomorrow, building on all that I’ve written up until now about my theory, doing my best to lay the points out image by image, point by point.
I guess it’s inevitable that the doubts are knocking at the door. Whether or not Proust is or is not my type, I’m going to do this. Starting tomorrow- diving in. Around 8 pages a day, 365 days. 7 volumes from start to finish. And writing whatever the hell I want, unafraid of what others might say. With panache!
Happy New Year, all!
