bullseye

July 31, 2012

Mmmarcel can we meet up next life time? xoxo

Melatonin seems to be mahh thang. Been droppinn emm and it’s almost like I can sleep again. Dreams are crazy tho. Vivid. Thas what I mean. Not that the dreams are crazy, but that I remember them at all and that they even make sense.

Last nite it was: the emissary. Mr. Brown has one. Fa real. He sends this guy instead of appearing himself. So the emissary came, second nite in a row. Only now I dig that the emissary is down with my new muse, the Black Cat, as we shall call her from here on out. Soo. Maybe the emissary is workinn for a couple of people now. Nevertheless, yes, he came two nites in a row and last night was kinda formal, so…

Last nite he knocked on my door and his hair was combed over and greased down like a first grader taking a school photo. And he was wearing this shapeless maroon sweater and Dockers and he looked totally geekt out. And he came in and he had things to tell me but I forget what it was. Cause I awoke and I was lying there thinking to myself, Fuck a memoir. Ima finish my novel first.

I thought it would be too dark, like dried blood, you know how that turns the color of dirt (whereas fresh blood is so beautiful I be watching it with reverence whenever I am doing a test for whatever I’m not trying to get). Yea. This novel, it’s so damn dark I thought I couldn’t hang but last nite I’m reading the Black Cat, and she is banginnn.

Shamelessness. Yes. This is my everything. She’s on the page dripping and spraying and, me, I’m like everyone else watchinn this scene talkinn about, Play it again Sam, this time in slooooow motion, please.

She makes me love everything I hate about myself. She got me sayinn ish like that. And you know, I’ve never had a woman as muse soo…

Safe. Oh so safe and so safe and so you know how dangerous this is? But ohh chills, man, chills. I gotta go.

Day 24: Who are you writing for? Do you have a target audience in mind?

Seriously, the only person I had been writing for was Mr. Brown. And I gave him the manuscript and I have no idea if he read it but soon enough I realized, I was half steppinn on mahself. So I asked him to set it aside cause I was gonna do a rewrite. Cause whas the point in him seeing me half dressed when I could be gloriously naked instead.

Now, mmm. Last nite I was searching for an email I never sent myself and I looked at some of our conversations and oo le cringe. Yea. That did it. Did it and done. I may write that book about him one day, but it sure as hell won’t be any time soon. I don’t like eatinn cake and findinn glass shards cuttinn thru my tongue.

So if I am not writing of him or for him, who am I writinn for?

Me.

Because you see. Art has nothing to do with commerce. The act of creation is sacred. The act of distribution is profane. I dig it. I flipt it. And I’ll flip it back when the time is right. I write for myself. I target no one else. I always hated that word anyfuckinnwayy.

One Response to “bullseye”

  1. “Cause whas the point in him seeing me half dressed when I could be gloriously naked instead.”
    This is a perfect way to put this! I love it! Makes perfect sense to me now.

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