What a strange era for some punk sociologist kid to think that being a writer was a good idea, in the age of a web site called so and so…
The two things I think about the most are, where are my glasses and the coffee is cold.
Come on old kid and just speak what’s on your mind. The writer gets moved around a bunch. Back to the crowd, no thanks. Now facing the window with back on the wall, waiting for the morning once again, for the bus so I can get to my office and work around the clutter of my own mess. I’m neater when I’m running around and working and trying to make the world spin, and happy, this word again, as the only happiness some people can find is in the past, and the memory likes to confirm itself like a dog likes a treat every time it takes a shit. The memory likes to look at old pictures and remember itself happy, when in fact, it often can’t remember itself at all. The man gets moved around and you never know when you’re going to have to wash some dishes or open some cans and that’s about all the man is good for, for opening things.I can’t look in there and what’s wrong when people whisper, and then there’s the nocebo effect of my art to go with this confirmation theory and valentine’s day and the onslaught of high school level infotainment, and I know people have college degrees and so why do they forget? I don’t know. It’s all too much for me. I’m Finishing my novel and working on other work and let’s just say that it’s a lot of work. What happened to my best of years, who cares, I’m here now and piles of papers on the ground, proofs and my back hasn’t had the proper support for years. The girls I’ve known have always wanted too much lotion, and now their skin isn’t even used to the real air. Tapes and papers and I’m the same, confirming a story that isn’t in the now, the basic struggle of life is even more stressed for the writer, and nobody should keep track of this much small time, and that’s because time moves and time traveling isn’t meant for the human body. Survival is in the present, but then again, don’t they say that a history that forgets itself, repeats itself, so take a test here…CLICK…HERE….NOW….to forget but remember at the same time, and sketches of things and sketches of time , the sands of time, waiting, laughing and bad things don’t impact the present until well…they do; and where did all my baby teeth go, that’s what I was thinking and the moon is a sliver and I always say “cool moon” but people don’t care because they’ve seen the moon before. I like them and they want me to like them more and then I do like them less, and make up your damn minds already humans and confirm the story which you’re going to do no matter what. “Cool Moon” and some have said that I’m the most silent asshole to ever live. I was only sleeping and that’s what I got in trouble for. I’ve gotten in trouble for brushing my teeth too long, for wearing too nice or too old of clothes, for caring or not caring too much, for being loud when I’m trying to tiptoe, for preserving in writing and then quitting writing. Some have said I’ve done too much and too less my entire life and so be it, but the chest is heavy and the fingers want to scream, but that’s why I have to carry the past, and that’s why new words can wait, and that’s why they can wait and love can wait and you can wait and music can wait and “the moon is cool” I said, and that’s true and my fingers can get in the groove and I have many things to say and so many new science fiction and middle aged robotic short stories to tell you, full of wires membranes and light… and I sure do; I have so many new words and new styles to try out and old and new books and theories to read. I have more work hidden in the paper mountain than you can even understand, but time is hunting me and I want to take it and throw it to the ground and walk away…
But I don’t get mean. I say those words over. It’s all good. The test of living is for the strong, and the strong are those who care for what they do. Everything can wait, and so can I, and the writer gets moved around so much. I’ll be in the bathtub soon and the water drips so when the last doors open and the last doors shut, and when the people shut the fuck up and when the drunks fall asleep, and when the people stop being so insincere and the vibes fail to impact my life, when something good happens, let me know, and then I’ll point at the moon again and I’ll say “it’s cool”, and then maybe someday we’ll be together and you’ll say, “yeah, it is pretty cool”, and you’ll say this because it is the truth, and it is now.
Adventures In American Writing 