Week Six - The Rings of Saturn

I wonder if this piece is focusing on the concept of sanity, or something else. I feel the text alludes me, which I find ever frustrating. On one hand I sort of understand what he's saying about whether this is real or that is real. I have had moments myself where the eyes gloss over and the mind numbingness and for a second reality itself seems to fall back to the timeless structures that are seen ad nauseum and the customs of daily life that we follow. I feel as if the patterns I follow just trying to keep the day, are a lost cause considering the best days are spontaneous and patternless. This becomes especially true when I spend too much time inside, as I am occasionally wont to do when I want to play video games or read or watch TV. I forget that merely walking out the door is an act of random self realization that helps the day awake to its goals and wishes and wants. I find that the view I charish becomes a mockery of the white skied solitude that seems to bear down on me, like buckets of water over the shoulders, never splashing. My laziness often desires to blame this on other people instead of myself, that if someone would actually call me, and talk to me, and wish of my company, that maybe the day would change and something would happen. The truth of the matter though is that no one ever calls, and the responsibility for my own day and sanity lies not in the dirty hand of chance, but in my own. And if I am willing to go out and walk somewhere and spend time doing something, anything, especially aimlessly, I will remember that glass is only a prison when you've seen one side for too long, and that you are your own gate keeper.

I find the questions at the end to be extremely helpful. They confirm that the reading has no more subtle purpose beyond the telling of a stylistic story. I can grasp that, it rings true that even if I struggled to find a point to this writing, I could at least noticed that there was a unique style at play. Still, I feel very thrown out of the narative through a random bunch of textual movements which I think only aids my own sense of displacement. But maybe displacement is the point? After all he talks about getting lost and losing his mind and ending up displaced in what sounds like a psychiatric ward. Maybe this writing should be equally displaced as him, since he is writing for a style, and what better what to invent a style that from an experience you had, a hidden theme. I may just be inventing all this as a wanton reader is to do, so forgive me. I also notice the pictures placed here and there, and the lack of paragraph breaks. I tend to write long paragraphs myself when I'm in a good mood, but my paragraphs I feel are merely the adult verson of my people's idea of writing a paragraph; with a scalpule I cut out the spacing perfectly, with spare blood do I attempt to fill my writings with humour, and with a natural sense of proportion do I chose when to sew intro to body to closing lines. Maybe this is what I'm supposed to understand from the Rings of Saturn, the power to invent your own writing, regardless of its point.