Trying to get something published – isn’t that an odd task, a presumptious one? Who would presume to be wanted to be read? Imagine instead a writing that neglects itself into existence, that grows, strange byproduct in the obscurest corner of a life. ‘What are you writing?’ – ‘I’m not sure’.
Writing that, epiphenomenal, has no intention behind it, and certainly not publication. That grows by itself – or rather that accretes, strange stalagmite, in the caves of interiority. ‘What are you doing?’ – ‘I’m not sure’.
The presumption of published poetry, say, and especially when it’s arranged carefully on the page. A few lines, then white space, a few more lines. Too purposeful. The presumption of drafted writing, written over and again. Rather that writing that could be found only as you might gather mushrooms: hidden growths, whole oeuvres beneath leaves and confusable with them. ‘What are you writing?’ – ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter’.
Lars Iyer's Blog 