Josh and I were having a conversation about reading and writing. He teaches in the Bronx and we both reminisced about our early childhood and school days and the point at which reading and writing became like second nature. I thought about it more afterwards and it became the subject of this entry.

I was about eight or nine years old when writing began its fascination with me. I read back then but usually mysteries; the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series--remember those? I'm sure if I dug deeper into my past I might find old copies buried somewhere under heaps of sentimental dust.

But as to writing's fascination with me, it found me curious, questioning, eager and daringly persuaded me to put pencil to paper back then, to form my thoughts into words.

Writing and I soon became constant companions. There were times of course when we had our fallouts. My fault usually, for whenever I felt sad or depressed I have often turned my back on writing--wordless. Writing often would return the favor with a loud silence.

These fallouts were never for long though, for I have long learned how to manipulate writing to bring about reconciliation. I found that assuming the proverbial position--pen in hand--worked best.

Reading had placed a considerable second in position to writing for a long time. It was not until I entered college and encountered great courses and professors that the impetus for reading became a priority. The impetus was due in part or whole--I'm not sure which--to professors like Hanley, Soliday, Watts, Oppenheimer and a couple of others whose names I cannot recall.

I recall however, the passion and vigor they all exuded as they taught. The force of their words, their enthusiasm and mostly, their love of the subject at hand and the way they communicated in written and oral forms always left me (and other listeners I'm sure), spellbound and hanging to the edge of our seats.

But it was in college that my attempt at sustained (perhaps sophisticated) reading was achieved. It goes without saying that this in turn helped me fine-tune my writing. I had become more interested in history, art, theories of language, the novel, its origin, poetry, philosophy and the great ancients and their successors held in high esteem by academia.

These days, I read more often than I write but none holds supremacy over the other in terms of which one I prefer. I love both but whether I read or write, I've found that there is always room for improvement.

"Each of us is here now because in one way or another we share a commitment to language and to the power of language, and to the reclaiming of that language which has been made to work against us. In the transformation of silence into language and action, it is vitally necessary for each one of us to establish or examine her function in that transformation and to recognize her role as vital within that transformation.

For those of us who write, it is necessary to scrutinize not only the truth of what we speak, but the truth of that language by which we speak it. For others, it is to share and spread also those words that are meaningful to us. But primarily for us all, it is necessary to teach by living and speaking those truths which we believe and know beyond understanding. Because in this way alone we can survive, by taking part in a process of life that is creative and continuing, that is growth."

(Audre Lorde, "The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action"). Via { Palimpsest }.

The question asked in the comment section of the post { I Desire } was:

"...who or what would you be if you were actually freed from all these "masks"? Who are we really without the personas we "put on"? In the end, I think we're a combination of all of those..........all those masks we create to protect ourselves. "

While we do construct masks to protect ourselves there are those ascribed to us by the outer world which we adapt for ourselves because they are used to define who we are. As such, we come to see our "selves" through the eyes of others and admittedly, we are a combination of all of these as you point out.

The desire however, of which I speak of is elusive/confounding yes. Lacan calls it a "'hole in the self' which the subject attempts to close through an endless, metonymic chain of supplements: the perfect car, the perfect boyfriend, a tenure track job, etc. But as soon as one supplement is acquired, desire moves onto something else. Desire is a (representational) itch that can never truly be scratched." { Explained fully here }

In this case its a desire nonetheless to know, to have, to do, to JUST BE--without the masks--one person rather than multiples.

Because its a desire, and because it is by its very nature fleeting, ethereal even, it denies us total satisfaction; by the time it even gets to that point, another desire manifests itself--the escape to some foreign land portrayed in painting for instance, after being tempted by its landscape or the lure of the painted nude who imposes himself in a certain window display in a prominent store in Manhattan--for "Art's" sake hmm...