PAUL SELING

Back in 2009, I had already experimented with blogging—or rather with the idea of writing without caring too much about form, finality, closed structures, or “epic chains.” Writing became a kind of performance for my own amusement, a personal form of entertainment that involved provoking myself with all kinds of spontaneous tasks. The next challenge was to write something resembling “poetry” or “free verse” on the fly, convinced by previous experiences in front of my laptop (a grey one!) that things would somehow close themselves elegantly. And they did. All these short “poems” were written in about 15 to 20 seconds each—another attempt to extract meaning and ideas from the superficial layer of the subconscious mind.

In fact, this small experiment on myself was meant to test whether there is a certain kind of control operating on this superficial layer—from where so many “conventional” notions are extracted or put to work. I suspect that in the immediate layer, right before “acting,” there exists a buffer of conventional beliefs and notions that verify the integrity of the mind one more time before the body takes physical action.

A light way to verify these personal beliefs was simply to sit comfortably and “act” minimally, by writing. Writing was the ultimate goal, but the question remained: could this writing reach a more or less conventional form—a completed “poem,” let’s say? I was not aiming for highly imaginative writing but wanted to see if instinct could act as a catalyst to bring a spontaneous text to a conclusive form.

I believed that instinct is a kind of coercive force tied to the finality of any work. It cannot act alone, separated from other determinants—maybe even the actual content or texture of the piece. What became clear is that the quality of the writing process triggers a certain type of closure. The epic length, dynamics, color, and texture of a chain of events are always both determinant and determined by their designed finality.

Is the finality or purpose of a creative process “productive” in some way, or is it purely experimental and free from such constraints? In my mind, it’s never entirely clear—it might be a mix of both. In this case, the purpose was so localized in time and space that it perhaps captured something of the “flavor” of the super-ego—if such a thing actually exists.

………

I`m forced to express my self out loud

By whispering. My silence is not enough.

I must now raise my voice to the level of

brutal chit chat.

 

 

Let`s talk, say nothing

two different noises who add up

White, pink, grey, who cares about the colour ?

As long as this  static keeps us contained.

 

 

In our bubble of self content

Beautiful phrases drift only to break apart 

Into simple and meaningless words.

I`ve got quite a collection now.

 

 

Don`t go there,

Don`t go into the void

Don`t go into that place

Where silence becomes talk.

 

…………..

 

 

Mesmerised, every day

By the endless possibilities 

We didn`t take.

Stubborn and dumb.

We kept walking this narrow path.

Of  absurd and senseless movement

 

 

In the mist of all promisses

I find myself without a clue

There is no beginning and no end

No black and no white.

No powerfull and no weak

 

 

No me and no you

Just a series of puppets.

mathematically moving on well known orbits

My words

Are

Though

Here.

 

 

……….

 

 

I`m not looking back

In the world of undo I learn to respect my mistakes

And love my blue-screen errors.

 

 

there is no failure, just a restart now and then

You are just one of my single-serving friends.

I might be  a hero from your childhood dreams

But who cares?

 

 

In the world of undo

there is no looking back

Brownian movement in the shadows of grey

Moving back is just another way

of moving forwards.

 

 

In the world of undo.

You recite  poems about your loved ones

While I`m staring at myself in the mirror

Wishing that somehow time stays still

 

 

In the world of undo,

I`m under the impression

I am free.

 

 

 

………..

 

 

Not much left in the city for us

A bunch of concrete blocks

Lots of dust

And a bicycle now and there.

U came and corrected me.

I was drifting terribly on my own ways.

Now we walk alone, side by side.

The world`s perfect now.

You and me, me and you.

Perfect mirror reflections

 

 

………..

 

 

More than once

you told me not to write

things down

the corrupt memory of our thougts

was so much better to chew on

 

 

bitter sweet nostalgia

instead of some real anger…

we lied to ourselves( accomplices )

and started to grow older.

 

 

…………

 

 

Curious people

not minding their own business

often come to see my moves

like cats attracted by a jumping ball

we are together in this one

I might be more curious

about your curiosity

then you are

about my show.

 

 

 

………….

 

 

My theatre show is on wheels

I am all the circus crew

the animals and the whip too

and still I manage to lie to myself

everytime

that the applause

is ment for Me

alone

……………..

Real questions attached to this small experiment:

The relationship between the potential public and the “poet” or creative is obviously varied. I still think experimental language artists are taken lightly by the general public, mostly because language itself remains everyone’s common ground.

What is poetry, really, in relation to “productive” purposes? I personally think that poetry is at least deconstructive—a state where logic is modified, metaphors are bent or distorted, grammar and phrasing are radically altered, and many other “actions” are taken against language’s usual typologies and normal structures. There is plenty of poetry “lying around,” poetry that more or less adheres to collective clichés about it. To me, poetry remains either an experimental field of language and symbolism or just another unusual remix of popular conventions collected by the collective mind—or maybe a mix of both. One could say poetry is a personal essay on all these issues and should not be judged externally. Yet poetry always seems to need to capture a public’s attention, perhaps beyond any of its productive potential. Also, the “value” of poetry may be perceived very differently across societies—capitalist, socialist, or anywhere in between.

The relationship between the potential public and the “poet” or creative is obviously varied. I still think experimental language artists are taken lightly by the general public, mostly because language itself remains everyone’s common ground.

( rewritten with ChatGpt )