Joyce, Beckett, Proust and Habit Blogging

'Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning conductor of our existence.' (Samuel Beckett on Proust)

In his essay on Proust, Beckett set out the groundrules for his view on 'habit'. As he defines it, habit represents the relationship between the individual and the environment, or between the individual and the self, as can be seen from the quote above. The individual who blogs, must accommodate him/herself to their surroundings, through discussion of life, love and destiny. By doing this, the person develops their own set of habits. Writing is a form of habit for me, a destiny. The reason that I must do this, according to Beckett, is because the world of habitual dullness is preferable to the world of reality which can only consist of suffering, this is the best that man can possibly hope for - writing, art and love.

'Suffering represents the omission of that duty whether through negligence or inefficiency (my illness) and boredom of its adequate performance (my artistic/quiz failures). The pendulum that oscillates between these two terms: suffering that opens a window on the real (art and writing) and boredom with its host of tophatted and hygienic ministers (the doctors/controllers/Patriarchal monsters/Janet Street Porters/who have nothing to do with art).'

Therefore, habit blogging, which is what I engage in, is not a positive characteristic of the human race, because it consists of boredom and its attribute of 'Time-Cancer' (the fact that nothing ever changes/my art is a worm that eats at me/the fun/pain dialectic of life)and yet, I suppose, it is not preferable to the suffering of reality and existence. I would rather have the suffering and reality and existence than the hidden grogginess of medication. Bring on the reality I say. I would rather experience the real highs (talking with you lot) and lows of life than say a medicated and induced plateau of feeling. I can experience a fleeting habitual smile, but I would like the belly laughs of last night to be a more prominent feature. And if some people say it is self-indulgent, who am I to argue? The twinkle that is not there anymore. If every action is deconstructed to its simplest form, it can be seen as a habit, because to Beckett, even 'breathing is a habit' and 'life is a habit' or rather life as a succession of individuals, the world becoming a projection of the individual's consciousness. Every part of life consists of habit and if for one moment, the habitual blogging ceases, the individual is faced not only with reality but also the fact that woman/man is predestined to suffer and die. If I stop writing, will I have to suffer more? Will Janet Street Porter condemn me to that? I'm not sure. I'd rather have the non-medicated suffering of reality and writing, knowing that no-one will know of me. I wonder if the art would be the same?

The Beckettian view of habit allows individuals to escape (writing/spewing up feelings, passions/sharing/flirting/inter-connecting) and therefore reject reality (I'll never make it in the art world because I just won't fit in/YOU'RE JUST NOT SERIOUS ENOUGH GIRL!) and so I plunged into a flux of boredom and dullness (employment)abandonment(loss of memory/happiness) and paralysis (the meds). But no more. Even though habit leads the individual to this state of being, it is still the 'lightning conductor' of our existence (my constant will to fight, write, fight and my passion for others)it is a source of energy, but not really positive energy, that is manages to sustain man in a bearable existence (continue to write and create art) implying that without it we would fail to exist. Existing with habit, we fail to look objectively at ourselves (face up to the crushing blows of rejection form the art/world/life) and therefore language and energy are deadened. Without the fight, there is no energy. 'Anger is an energy.' Etc. We publish ourselves, yes. Who are we hurting?

The study of Proust and Beckett's elucidations of the term 'habit' can be seeing in 'Waiting for Godot' (waiting for them to listen to me)where Mercier aptly states, 'nothing happens twice'. The characters of Vladimir and Estragon are trapped in a state of habit because there is 'nothing to be done' and 'nothing to show' (I cannot post, I cannot comment). The habit follows Beckett's theory, as reality can only bring suffering. Vladimir and Estragon are caught up in a state of habit because they escape reality to adjust themselves to their predicament. Thus, I sit here, writing to free myself from thoughts that plague me. I have faced it, but I lose myself for a moment in art. I lose myself in the eruptions of the repressed. Vladimir and Estragon make the best of the world by improvising and inventing (poetry/prose/drama/comments) which leads to a never-ending situation:
(Substitute characters names with the critical voices of others)
Estragon: And if he doesn't come?
Vladimir: We'll come back tomorrow.
Estragon: And then the day after tomorrow.
Vladimir: Possibly.
Estragon: And so on.

If the boredom of habit is broken man/woman/blogger must face the reality of his own existence and also his imminent suffering and death.(He said it in jest, but on one of his Podcasts, Robert said, 'Just filling in time before imminent death.' So Beckett, it hurts.) There is one moment when Estragon has a dream and wakes in total fear (the terrible nightmares). The dream-world is often a place where the truth exists and where man is forced to face his own destiny (as Bloom does in 'Circe' in 'Ulysses' - it is interesting that Estragon goes on to tell a story about a man in a brothel (think of our crude words last night - very Beckettian), thus linking the two authors.) The reader has no insight into the dream-world of Estragon, unlike Bloom, but it is suggested that the this world is a kind of reality which Vladimir and Estragon cannot face.

Some of my blog entries have been shocking. On the old blog especially. Sometimes they might make the reader uncomfortable especially when juxtaposed with something light and humorous. Some, I have removed because of personal reasons. I have toyed with the idea that they might shock. I like the dialectic between high/low, pleasure/pain, anger/laughter. We should not be afraid to reach into the repressed or the taboo in art. We should not really self-censor our blogs. We should nurture freedom of speech for everyone. The reality of life is a joy that we should explore. We create our own worlds (our own writings) and the world of others (our comments) through our actions. The macrocosm, or the world of reality, allows the real nightmares to exist...so leave me to my art and creativity, Janet.

I have asked for forgiveness (apologies/explanations/tears of sadness) making so many mistakes in my writing. I'm not sure if I regret anything I have written, on my old blogs, other blogs and this one here. Perhaps it is best to explore the limits of what you can take and see how you come out at the other end. Pozzo tries to reject reality as false - I did not want to leave my feelings unexplored or left false. I always knew they were there, a kind of experimental writing that forced things to erupt. I did not expect a lot of what has happened to me, but it has changed my perceptions of my own personality. 'The ballast that chains a dog to his vomit' was broken for a moment and everything turned upside down for me. Hypothetically, if the dog is allowed to wander freely away from his predicament (exploration through art) there is always the possibility of being whipped by his master. I think what has happened to me wasn't exactly getting 'whipped' but facing up to the reality of the past and present. Reality does not offer a more positive alternative to habit in Beckett's work, but in my life, the reality was, I would say, enlightening to explore, both on and off my blog. Some things were too horrifying to publish. The bubble is always there. Writing was the only way I could prove I existed.

I continually create signs and gestures (a smile, a word, a message) and I try to be kind in the world in which I exist. In some ways, the only way to go forwards, is to go backwards and face things that we don't want to do. Perhaps, even now, I go round and round in circles like Molloy, returning to a kind of reptilian state, that bores the pants off people. The notion of the reptile, which exists before the time of man, before memory, before meaning and most importantly language is a state taht we all need to get to before we truly know ourselves. A kind of regression beyond nothingness to the minima of existence (I remember nothing).

In 'Happy Days', Winnie is embedded in a mound (oh I am stuck and my art goes nowhere) of habit. She is continually chatting (how many comments do I make?) and she seems to resign herself to the fact that things are 'no better, no worse, no change'. However, she is unusually optimistic in her situation. I am a very optimistic, jolly person. I view the glass as half full, I really do. However, there is always a dark-side. The feeling that I have to escape the past, protect my sister. I opened the boxes. It was bloody dangerous and I did it here on my blog. But, that was my moment of danger. 'The impossible moment when something enters life to give it eternal significance.' I've always, always done the right thing, been the eternal optimist, the carer, the worker, the fighter. I took a risk. For once in my life, I defied every convention, explored the danger. Part of me enjoyed it. Part of me was alive. For that moment of reality and danger, would I do it again? Yes, I think I would. To escape the eternal, artless wasteland...yes I would...if I hadn't broken the rules, my life would have been reduced to meaningless gesture, a dark larval state that I didn't want to get stuck in. Just one moment as the butterfly explorer, that's all I wanted.

Through my writing, I want to move forward. I want to blaze with feeling for once. I want to challenge art. I want to be a woman in my own right. I'd like to be accepted as someone who has something to say...someone worth listening to...I want to sense the fluid and the vital...face my destiny like Molly in 'Ulysses'. Language at once becomes fertile, passionate and alive. I have made a conscious effort, like Molly and Bloom, to remember the past here and create hope for the future. I am glad that I have explored parts of my character through blogging that I never thought I would, because I have escaped fomr the boundaries of a sanctuary that has protected me all my life. I am glad that I have met you all along the way - you do all mean so much to me in your different, refreshing ways. I have found parts of it strangely liberating, because now I am able to start afresh with my life. For once in my life, I took some risks.