August 10, 2012
I tried to write this, to right this, yesterday but it came out like glue. Sticky icky icky. My tongue stuck to the roof. My fingers goop. My words soup. I wrote and I wrote and then I deleted it all. Or most of it. Knowing I’d be back this morn. Step Four, round two. But not just that. It’s my Malevich moment, white on white.
This is a Suprematist Composition. That sounds fierce. It’s me floating off kilter in the middle of the canvas. It’s a time when time forgot, when nothing happens because it’s too damn hot. It’s the still point in a turning world, to quote T.S. Eliot for betta or worse. It is me, floating along without needing to know the how or why of it all. It is the completion of a full revolution, as we take a turn around the dancefloor, me in your arms.
Or not. Might just be me. Might just be me and me happily eva after. Once upon a time, that bothered me. Deeply. But today, perhaps not. Perhaps this is where freedom is born.
It is in the act of writing, which I am discovering to be a strange and mysterious master. Writing in its many guises, its whispers and screams and trilling laughter. Writing, with its husky voice and its high pitched giggles, with its baby babbles and old man wheezes. It’s almost impossible to describe but so easy to feel. It is the difference between day and night when my fingers spill over the keyboard. Ratta tat tat and alla that. It is the rhythm and the sound and the other night as I lay in bed I realized, it is my voice in your head.
And that is… power.
Only. I don’t like power. Because I like power. It’s too visceral for me. It’s why I write, to set myself free. I keep thinking writing is release but it is also something else. It is as Mr. Ex told me, blowing my mind with his gentle caress. We only write about that which we wish to hold on to. We write to make it tangible. Because you can’t let go of something until you can hold on to it.
Which, mmm, may explain why I am quoting him. I am thinking of today, Day Thirty Four: What tends to serve as the most reliable source(s) of inspiration for you?
And now I am reminded of the words of John O’Hara: They say great themes make great novels but what these young writers don’t understand is that there is no greater theme than men and women.
I believe the first time around I answered the question by saying Love, love is my source of inspiration but this time around I’d like to amend this for I overlooked the obvious.
I discovered this word one day, perhaps a year ago. I had been writing my novel and it was flow. Wow, yes, once upon a time it was flow. Mostly because I didn’t know what I was doing and it didn’t matter at all. I wasn’t blogging, I wasn’t working, I wasn’t doing a damn thing. Mr. Brown was out of town and I was decompressing from every single thing. And I was writing, and it was flow, and I had never written fiction before, so it was, whoa.
I discovered things of which I didn’t know, like I don’t have control and when I try to take control, it goes awry. Like this power that I love and this power that I loathe, it’s not actually mine, it’s just flowing through me as I type.
So yes, I was writing and people asked of me, What is your novel about and all I could say is, It is an unlove story.
I had never heard that word before. I haven’t heard it since. I tried to define it but it didn’t ask for words to describe its existence. It. Just. Exists.
I know it well. I know it as well as I know myself. It is not hate or fear or anything else that has been defined before. It is a new word for an ancient curse. It is what happens when two people meet and everything falls apart. It is what happens when failure succeeds and nothing is my everything in the most nihilistic sense. It is the vortex of absence. Like a black hole. An abyss beyond Hell. Because Hell is somewhere. But unlove is the negation of existence itself.
Unlove. It is as much my inspiration as Love itself. It is that which I need to release by holding on to it. Ahh. I want to italicize those words but what of it. How can visual stress communicate this knowledge of the pain of that which I must hold. To release. To keep. By setting it free. To live in paradox by crawling into the darkest spaces of my being.
This is why I am not writing. It is almost obscene.
I know. Cause I know. When I don’t write. I mean, my novel. I need to let go but I don’t want to touch it. I just want… something else, please. I thought I could escape Unlove by writing of Mr. Brown but damn if that ain’t more of the same. Cause in that same conversation Mr. Ex tells me, Getting caught up is not being swept away.
Curse you Mr. Ex and your righteous truth (smile). I am laughing because the Gods are laughing because when wet eyes are dry what else is left ..
August 6, 2012
August 3, 2012
What fascinates you?
Men. mmMennn. Men. Oh yes. Fascinating. I can’t help myself. I’ll neva eva understand. And that’s tha thing. It keeps me hookt. It’s my drug of choice, sweet and lovely men, mainlined, of course.
Tis as I said: For me, the most provocative way to discover my true self is by understanding my complement. Men offer a means to a level that I would never know as a woman.
But. This doesn’t work with every man I meet. Sometimes, wow, ouch, the mirror shatters into a ten thousand shards of glass and each piece slices through my hands. Fingertips, missing. Abraded skin. Blood gushing pouring thick and slick and red and wet and the smell, it smells of earth and iron and fires of the deep and my stomach starts to wretch.
That’s how it has been. Had been. Past is Past. I’m past this, forevermore, nevermore, quoth the raven. Edgar Allen reps the Bronx, my peoples go deep, ya dig.
I’m kinda dizzy. I mean. It’s hot. It’s that August lull where it feels like nothing happens only it’s a seismic shift. Maybe thas why I am so spaced. Waves knocking me over and pulling me under and tumbling round and who cares anymore. I realized something I cannot speak. But it’s kinda like this…
March 28, 2012
What we call the beginning is often the end.
And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice,
a continual extinction of personality.
The communication of the dead
is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
Quotes by T.S. Eliot
Photographs from Dead Boy’s Poem