Subtle, literal, direct, focused, insightful, superficial, sensational, dull, certain, sincere, faltering, rambling, obscure, cliché, lost, confident.
That is how I feel about what I'm doing at the moment, it shines with certainty in my minds eye, but slips through my fingers like jelly when I grasp for it.
There is something inside of me.
There is something true and real.
But there are layers of different languages between it and me. Norwegian, English, philosophy, material, tradition, semiotics, empirics, emotion, memory and poetry. They are all languages that must be mastered, and even if they might rely on each other from time to time they are varying degrees separate and they don't always cooperate with each other.
That subtle slip of a notion that swirls so deceptively between my depts and my surfaces, it speaks to me in all these languages at the same time. It evokes so much so deftly, I might as well trace the steps of a prima ballerina as try to speak its truth with all of its gradients and variations.
But grasp at it I must.
I must reach out my clumsy hands.
Feel the contours of it as they shift beneath my touch.
I remind myself that I might be too stubborn yet. I might be too fixed by my own infatuation with what's easy and quick. Cheap tricks and clever fixes. I feel like a flea circus, I make the kids squeal with wonder, but the feeling doesn't linger and the memory fades under the shine of too much of the similar too soon after.
I don't want to be a cheap fix. The cheap fix is jut a parody of the truth, it amuses, but it lies as well, obscures the real and shifts the focus to the self gratification of pleasure and amusement. Shifts the focus away from that subtle thing.