Friday, December 12, 2008

They Came For My Wounds

Robert deleted six hundred words without revision. He ate chocolate and crisps as sickly medicine and began again.

Robert considers himself buffoonish, like a red-bottomed ape, or a cat stuck in an adolescent tree. He won't admit it out loud, but he believes himself inadequate in what he does best. He believes three and a half year's accumulated focus and work amounts to a plate of beans.
Yesterday he would have wept if he thought to do so.
Tomorrow Robert will try again, to write something great, but longer than usually, to post on his blog. In the time in between he will either be thinking about writing or fantasising about how enormously great whatever he will write will be.
At no time will he consider what he will write about.
He will only dream and mentally stroke himself, never thinking practically at all, not just for one moment, about what he lives to do.
Robert, as he will often say to himself, is a fucking red-bottomed monkey, or an ugly, female dog. He is training himself for failure.

He has told himself, to write successfully, he needs to do several things. Unpack what he knows. There is not a beginning, middle or end. Write for no-one but himself. Enjoy the act of writing. Not what he has written. Don't think about it. Don't distract himself with people or worry about sitting in front of a computer for too long. Write, don't play video games or watch a movie. Get off fucking twitter and don't have gmail open. Log out of facebook.
He is not to read what he has written until he is finished. He is to pretend it is in the air waiting to be caught. It is not going to fall. There is no gravity for thought. He is to continue to fill that space until he is satisfied.
It is music once played and forgotten forever, not recorded. It is ephemeral and pure and should not be beaten until in an accepted form.
Writing is piano playing. It is not what he wants it to be, it is every click of the space bar and every wringing hand gesture. It is time lost when not performed. It is what... it is not a record. It is not a record. It is jazz. It will never be forever. Nonsense.
Just write like memories are wallpaper, like girl's smiles are automated responses to inert stimuli.
Just breathe.

You have no readers to worry about, no truths. Just . Just. Just.
Blah. Blah. Blah.

Oh Christ, send me back.

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