Editorial
Initially planned as an issue on confusion and frustration, the present issue of Stationary Gypsy was mired in frustration. Frustration in collection, frustration in editing, frustration in waiting, frustration in making. Nothing quite seemed adequate, everything apparently could be done better, and a nagging sense of emptiness and meaninglessness trailed in its waifs. Constantly fighting the question, "What difference does it make?" Some out there have said, "This is as good as it gets." But there is nothing to stop another from going, "Shit! I could have done better, you could have done better, and we both know it could have been better."
In this elusive search for perfection, I believe that maybe deep down in me at some point, I will experience that untenable state of saying, "Ah!!!... There I have it. I am there. This is the best, and never shall there be any better."
Maybe athletes are the most fortunate, for there are moments in a sporting situation which allows for perfection, undeniable perfection, seemingly unachievable success. It could be small or big, a shot on a pool table, a backhand skimming the line, a new world record, a perfect triple back flip. A moment, when you feel the best - unstoppable - completely present within that moment.
Sports and games might be the only arena where in you could achieve that. Maybe it's partly the limitation or boundary between the rest and the game, maybe it's the amelioration of mind and body that occurs during a game and maybe it is the banishing of thought for all eternity within that moment. A moment when all life is the game and the game itself becomes your life. Whatever it is, it's not something that sticks around. Whatever it is, it's not something that really comes to life when you write.
This brings us to the tragedy of writing. Of trying to write, knowing you can write, and believing you can write, and yet always reading what you wrote and knowing it just ain't quite there, but always knowing that elusive 'there!' is but an illusion, a thin little veil you cover yourself in. The words penned or typed is all that is there, what makes it good and not so good can hardly be what is there, but rather what is not there. Ironic that perfection is a judgement on what is lacking rather than what is present.
As a writer, frustration inevitably creeps into your life and confusion consistently guides it. The last time I wrote I found it deeply unsatisfying, so I tried to re-write it, which just turned out as bad as my first attempt. Remembering old Robert de Bruce I tried and tried and tried again, but never could I garner an ounce of satisfaction from myself. In my frustration I had forgotten what I wanted to write. Dazed and confused I then became. Looking back, that mind set of frustration was bred into me through the very words I was wrote. The fact that I knew I had something to say made it even worse. The fact I knew there were an unlimited number of ways to say it and I couldn't find one, bothered me even more. The fact that at the end of it I had forgotten killed my spirit.
Trying and failing is a sure way to succeed in embodying frustration. However, for a writer there is always a strategic mind fuck that occurs that goes along these lines, "Am I really that good? I mean, I sure thought I was, but what the fuck? Why can't I get this shit down, I mean I know what I want to say right? Am I this shitty a writer that I can't even express the taste of fishcakes in two lines? Why am I trying to write this? What the fuck do I think I will get out of this? Shit! And I thought I would make it big. God what a fucking fool I am…"
Any writer who pursues this line of thought will, it is safe to say, not only be getting very confused with the deeper meanings to his life and the eminent value of his writing but will also be getting increasingly frustrated as he tries to shove this kind of thought process far from his immediate consciousness. But that my friends, is like listening to someone peeing in the bathroom but trying hard not to listen.
So without further adieu, I would like to thank our out going editor, Pranab Man Singh, for his marvellous work in getting SG to the present situation it is in, and thoroughly being frustrated with the whole endeavour and thus handing it over to me. Your new and possibly improved, although some may begrudge (and as you can see this line of thought can lead to frustration) this editor welcomes you to a new issue of Stationary Gypsy, that is still thoroughly confused about what it actually is and is getting increasingly frustrated in what it is becoming.
Cheers!
Paramjeet Magar
Leave a Comment