Writing in a Meaningless World
We Define the World for One Another
My world has become very small the last two weeks. This afternoon, I sit with my back to the window, and the sun reaches in over my shoulder to draw shadows on the bookshelf. The pink spine of Sophie Calle shines: Take Care of Yourself. And the white cover of the pop-up Den lille prinsen shows off its embossed award, and almost begs to be chosen for the afternoon. But I’m not in the mood for analyzing a break-up, or giving in to ennui. I fiddle with my pen and an old notebook.
Sometimes I look at the light that shines from a clear sky, and wonder if there is a visual expression of this particular temperature of light—something so subtle that we aren’t consciously able to perceive it, but perceive it all the same. This—a February’s Sunday and noon’s, clear-sky light—it feels a certain way. It’s natural to want to personify it: a very particular woman has entered the room, someone you knew a very long time ago, and it may take you a while to place her in your memory.
When we “sense” an atmosphere, are we doing so with a yet-to-be-discovered sense? Do discrete somethings exist that communicate atmosphere the way scent is communicated to us by way of molecules to our olfactory sensors? Do we have atmosphere sensors? If we did, it might explain deja vu.
I think it’s more likely that we interpret individual senses as a whole, and perceive this whole as an atmosphere. Like tumblers on a slot machine, the various sensory signals line up and bells go off in our brain: Quiet, contemplative Sunday afternoon. She’s here again.
This probably isn’t a scientific question at all. Someone had this figured out a long time ago, but I believe that if I stop asking child-like questions, I would be closing the door to creativity.
Interrogate is a brutal word, but when I interrogate the world, however naively, I break down my experience into singular events for examination. And since I don’t believe anything in isolation is meaningful, I can create new meaning from pieces of the past.
We can talk about subatomic particles without attributing meaning to them. And these tiny things can take on entirely new identities when they are no longer isolated: subatomic particles become atoms, atoms become molecules, molecules become apples.
But what do any of these things mean? The apple is only meaningful in combination with or in a confrontation with an existing meaning. A few years ago I was talking to my students in Norway about what an apple symbolized. I assumed everyone would think of Adam and Eve. But that wasn’t even their third suggestion for an association. 1. computers 2. health 3. lunch. (This made me very sad. Do we really live in such a story-poor society?)
I’m finding it increasingly difficult to believe that anything has intrinsic meaning. And that the idea that people are functionally damaged by trauma, and unable to correctly interpret the world, is absurd. Our ability to interpret is fine; the problem is that the context and the attribution of meaning are outside of cultural context we call the norm.
There are endless constellations of context, and we construct meaning for ourselves and for one another.
I started thinking about this—or rather, this started percolating in my mind—because I have a student who’s been asking a lot of questions that I can’t answer. (I love it when this happens.) They’re interested in hyperrealism.
What is hyperrealism in theater?
It’s either a fascinating question, or an irrelevant one. Naturalism covers some of the aspects of hyperrealism very well: the attention to detail. But Naturalism had a sociopolitical objective in the narrative, while hyperrealism is about objectivity.
We can look at Punch Drunk, and their attention to detail, the nudity, the immersive productions. But their work includes dance and elements of abstraction—not to mention the hope that the audience will be literally under the influence and slightly off-center during the show.
I’ve been thinking that maybe the most challenging aspect of a theatrical hyperrealism is theater’s use of time. Can time, somehow, move more slowly? I think about Robert Wilson’s operas of 30 years ago, where the actors moved so slowly it took them an hour to lift an arm.
My poetry has been described as hyperrealist. I have a play that is very loosely based on Horace Wells’ life. The script has hyperrealist elements, varying timelines, and surrealist elements (Wells invented anesthesia). I’ve been having trouble finding a point of attack for editing.
I think I may have found one. Interrogating the play as a work of hyperrealism, gives me a focus. The intrinsic question when writing objectively is how to make the metaphors work in a way that doesn’t authoritatively assign them meaning.
Hyperrealism is very democratic in that sense.
Thank you for taking the time to read or listen.
I’d love to hear your thoughts—please share them in the comments on Substack, or go to the Dramatic Roots chat, where note sharing becomes an act of literary citizenship. Post a link to your work, and share another. You can find more about my work, including my mentoring and accountability services, at renpowell.com.
I’ll be back next week with a new poem.
Warmly,
Ren
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