My own great divide.

The day/night has started out as draining, and likely will remain so. After flirting with a few shorter essays and articles, I plunged into this interview with Gao Xingjian, a Nobel literature laureate and Chinese artist living, exiled, in France.

I took notes along the way, a handful quotes and paraphrases, a couple conceptual launching points, and a few inspired riffs on themes, including one on exile and asylum. At one point the article mentions that Gao works 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, ostensibly because he can't get enough of this "freedom of expression" vibe, and has to make up for the 20 years of self- and state-censorship he suffered in China. (That last bit isn't explicitly stated, but it sounds good!)

Here's a bit of his personal philosophy:

"Without Isms is neither nihilism nor eclecticism; nor is it egotism or solipsism. It opposes totalitarian dictatorship but also opposes the inflation of the self to God or Superman. It hates seeing other people trampled on like dog shit. Without Isms detests politics and does not take part in politics, but is not opposed to other people who do. If people want to get involved in politics, let them go right ahead. What Without Isms opposes is the foisting of a particular brand of politics on to the individual by means of abstract collective names such as 'the people', 'the race' or 'the nation'."

· From The Case for Literature, translated by Mabel Lee, published by Yale University Press

I'm finding Gao more personally inspiring the more I read the article and mull it over.

"Do your important creations for you!" my brain parses. "Don't worry about selling those important expressions. Don't compromise yourself when it really counts." Gao wrote in secret during some of his time in China, and I don't mean passing copies to friends on the sly. While in a labor camp, he buried his work in the dirt.

Creation, expression, is an imperative in his life.

Proofed by my actions, curiosity is the only imperative in my life. If I look at my days, I consistently spend more time in receiving mode than creating mode. I do my best not to be idle in these times of absorption, instead actively engaging my brain and examining what I read.

I profess, however, that creating is very very important to me. I do draw at least one thing every day, and most days I sketch. The constant evidence of my scratchbook is less creative. My blog posts aren't creative. All those are merely... thoughtful.

What is the conclusion of these facts? What can I learn, how can I grow?

Initially, the outlook is dismal. My intrinsic motivations for creative output will always be outstripped by my interests in religion, philosophy, theory... in humanity. Perhaps my lack of actual experiences drives me to experience things vicariously. Lacking a vibrant personal history, I'm establishing an understanding of the world through text. In many ways, the journal I'm taking notes in is my personal bible, a tome of thoughts, ideas, and seeds of stories. It is rich in Annie-ness, with details enough to be interesting and vagueness enough to be open-ended.

When I have filled this book, when I have crammed it with thoughts on every surface, will I be ready to stop taking notes and start creating?

In the past 10 minutes I've lost all threads of coherency and my thought process devolved into waiting for the other epiphany to drop. Now I see myself as afraid, unprepared to be a valid creator, but not in the sense of skill, but in the sense of soul. I feel like I don't know a single thing about life and the world, so anything I write will be pure pretense.

This is hard.
I'm lost.
I don't understand.
I'm scared.