Jan 6, 2008
I'm an overthinker. I am compulsive and obsessive though not a combination of the two. I press everything and underwhelm the masses. Stray shots of serotonin and segues to animalia, of course, but in general, I will shut down completely. I drink-- a lot. A whole lot.
When the sunlight (or cloudlight depending on the weather tomorrow) hits me in the morning, it will cut through pale skin and underused limbs. It will feel funny to walk to a train and use it. It will be a nightmare to try and function. This is everyday, sure, but I am struggling mightily right now. There are reasons. I care not to explain:
Slouch and contain. Court and convalesce. I am orating the end times, in a way. I'm tired always. I'm bored. I'm lonely and lecherous. I'm formidable. I'm an outdated schoolbook.
Exercise 1: Don't leave your house for two days. Eat terrible food. Give up.
Exercise 2: Leave and lament. Mourn the loss of contentment. Save yourselves.
Essay questions: Compare and contrast the way Howard Moss describes the way you want to feel about a woman to the way Daniel Halpern describes your malaise toward them. Tear paper up into scraps and forget it all.
Insisting that Elizabeth Bishop is sitting like a coiled snake, staring at future teeth-wounds with a sensual smile on her martyred face, elaborate.
Exercise 3: Toss the broken typewriter down the steps. Write onomatopoeias to describe the way this sounds like the way David Markson invites the spirit of dying in "The Last Novel." Elongate your vowels and forget your heritage in the process. Make a joke about the current political climate. Always start with a joke. Always, then they know it's going to be fine unless you're lying, but you wouldn't do that.
Exercise 4: Move forward strapped to the song "I Typed For Miles." Don't let's. Don't answer the phone, please.
I'm lying face down on a bed. I'm caroming off of enclosures. I'm fathoming the human condition in it's vainglorious forms. I'm digging up old speeches from important situations. They are succinct and situational. I'm feeling the same way.
I'm contacting doctors and careening through character collisions while caging my self-contempt. Collusion! Colluison! Collision!
Essay Questions: A lion sleeps on the foot of your bed every night, so you sleep lightly. How do it's impressive jowls resemble the iridescence of the irrelevance of this exact idea you just had? Inform me that, young man. You motherfucker, you tell me THAT.
When did you quit? What was the exact time you quarantined your lack of talent? Write down the time of death. Compare that to the suicides of the young, restless writers you tried to emulate. Design a narrative arc and destroy it with cliche or maybe a cloche filled to the brim with conversations about the lack of hope that is destroying the people around you. Write all that down and build. Wouldn't John Dos Passos have done that? Explore that.
The idea is, for all intents and purposes, is dead, but I will keep writing it down. Sociologically, it's the logical thing to do.
Oh, and lions. That shit is majestic. Yeah, yeah-- fury-filled and fictitious and we all live for moments where the lion rests it's head on our chests and feels as comfortable as we don't or maybe do. It's anyone's guess at this point. Of course it is.
Exercise 5: Lie down and concentrate. Maybe, then, they will all run their hands over your mane and elaborate on your fierceness but probably not, no.
Essay question: We can all fall restless and fill our imagination with brambles rustling and bushes rattling but, really, the idea was dead when it knocked on your door, so why did you write all this down in the first place? Why ask questions to empty rooms and fidgeting roommates if, really, the blood is trickling under your French Doors as we speak? Just ease into the depression, will you? Just slip in like kids skinny dipping in cold lakes or like cheap, smooth scotch after you are already drunk.
I am alive, but barely, but barely, sunning on a rock being photographed while the day's prey is sitting heavy in my fucking stomach.