This has been the undirected project of Robert L Powell, scribbler and aspirant—conceived as a place to channel the unfinished, the tentative and luminary glimpses that throw me down. I am now, hopefully, working toward something more definite as I continue to write and read. This place was conceived as something of a scrapbook and portfolio of drafts: sharable with the curious; also, a space to populate with quandaries and tests against the everyday.
There have been many blogs in the past. Voices represented here have not been proffered as an extension of a persona—public or private—but rather excision. Thinking happens; for me, it also happens to answer the irresolvable—“to be?” I find journaling in this way has lost something its resonance. As proliferation of social media continues to cannibalize certainty, to promote and sustain a constant telegraphing of painful incisions, I do not feel educated by the experiments aimlessly exhorted from lecterns out of the ether. Unattached to a stage, I feel I should withdraw. I genuinely don’t know what or where any of us might find anesthesia, locked-down or thrown-up—disorder remains nauseating—but I’m convinced other remedies will be discovered.
The spirit that teleports every spare moment of modern, privileged living—a disembodied yet endless annotation—anticipates [past] trigger-response-times. So far as I can understand, always being on the edge of a conversation primarily situates most of us in outrage. With this comes an almost pathological need to imagine and curate something highly accessible—an easily referenced, but also anodyne, identity. As the converse of empathy is outrage, splitting every fractal into a faction seems to be a disturbingly natural way to be at the end of a day. I feel this overwhelms an essential need for more traditional noise—what some people might still call silence.
As such, I am slowly dismantling what has been “impensive” here, though with the hope of repurposing what has been worked out under its rubric. However happily useless this cutting, arranging, and scribbling has been, the only remaining scraps of this book will not be my own.
I continue to study literature and its anaphoric theories. I aim to print, but it will not be here. I live and write in Toronto .