To have faith in writing, what might that mean? To have faith in words written blindly, without forethought – what is that? As though I might surprise writing in writing. As though I could come across it, surprising it, but by means of writing, by means of what it is. What kind of hunter am I who would hunt with the very thing he is seeking?
And now I think of the Zen archer whose target is himself. Aim for yourself. Aim writing – where? To where you are not. To what you cannot say, and of yourself. To what, in writing, has nothing to do with you. But what kind of faith is that? To have faith in writing – but perhaps it is only when faith is lost that it is gained. That it’s when you want nothing by way of writing, that it is the least important, that it might come close to you.
You have to fall, I tell myself. You have to fall from writing. Writing must become nothing at all. A wrong turn; an accident – it must be as though you accidentally brushed the page with your pen; that you accidentally began to type.
‘I had nothing better to do’. ‘I had a spare hour, and nothing to do’. Casually, happening of itself, dropping from itself, there is writing: there it is. Dropping from – what? An empty sky? A stalactite that drips down from what ceiling? You have to fall, I tell myself, and from the desire to write. To fall – just that, and without wanting to fall. But when will it be possible? When will I surprise writing by writing?
Lars Iyer's Blog 