Saturday, September 16, 2006

sitting with an empty day ahead

Tried working some more on it. So far it’s a bunch of confusion. I have two separate tries in two different vague works but they are different styles. And I’m not sure where the variance lies or which one I like better so I am sort of stuck at the moment in an attempt to figure it out. The first one seems more polished and sounds certain. While the other has a better rhythm but is chaotic and might be lacking in personal thought. I’m not sure how to distinguish the idea of action and description with the bulk of knowing what the character knows and feels. If that comes out in the action and description and what is penned on the page or if it is stated. Or I just don’t lack the sublties of getting it down right. So the Funeral Procession just stares at me in two iterations and I want to know where to throw myself at. I figure maybe just best to write out the whole second one but then that leaves me with a harder choice because I have two done and then more polishing and the idea of it ever leaving my hands and falling through and being read by the outside force that exists apart from this desk and these words.

Where did the break in the story happen; stylistically I ask myself and probably the best answer was from when I started reading again and noticing more slight variation then I had before so more heavy influence is on me. But the rhythm julian, that flow is so important and everything sounds nice and its tighter and makes the story ripe and rich with living organism. Like a human actually put it together in all the pain and shit around them and it mattered. That’s what the second one will be I guess if I get to it but the first is done. And the ending holds the vestige of what the second one is. So its rare because the first piece is crazy one piece until the end when I started the switch and then the second is holding on to itself as one piece but what if the end becomes something different like the first and I get this crazy fucking cycle of writing the same story over and over again with minor difference and fluctuations but it keeps changing in rhythm flow and style. Jesus f’ing christ there is so much ahead.


I sat in my room and in my bed again and turned my head so the pillow was nice and propped on my neck. But that didn’t last and then I was completely flat lying down and thinking about stuff. I didn’t want to get up and I wished it was still dark out and that the sun would stop being so bright and shiny all at the same time. Then there was my clock which told me it was morning and my stack of books and my thirsty desk and my floor with paint splattered on it and it was all empty and the world was alone and I wanted to sleep and close my eyes again.

So I tried to move to the couch but it didn’t change and I thought about some days ago when I had felt completely tired and wrote out a long essay about Camus and his ideas on how there are four different types of people and what each of those specific persons does to deal with the existential problem; that there is nothing y hay nada.

The Camus paper turned out around 2 pages I think? But I wrote it and was completely unsure as to the thoughts and the ideas so I just took a spill on my green couch and let it suck me in so I could be like a green snake in the rainforest but frogs would jump and I just imagined instead that I was in the outskirts of the world; near the end but not so close so I was in a cantina that a friend of mine owned and he was off playing cards and I was just lying there with a book in the night with the fan whirling up ahead and the cool air plastered all over my face so I eventually closed my eyes and when I awoke again it was midnight and still dark and it was all lovely.

Then I headed back towards my bed and sleep and it was morning and I did the thing but turning halfway in a curl so my body was a C and then I wished I had woken up to the dark because I like watching the sunrise and sort of enjoy being part of the changeover of the day and in the sunrise room.

Well now after being on the couch and thinking about those past times I looked through a stack of books and smoked a cigarette near the window blowing the smoke out and thinking about the smell of bacon which permeated throughout the house from downstairs. Then I considered rhythm and prose and all of the above and wanted to escape to Colombia until I wasn’t the same and I came back as a wraith or hidden and in the life as a separate person but I had to escape the trickster me which probably wouldn’t happen so we just decided to sign a pact to become the other part of Camus’s plan back in January where we became the struggling creative and making everything more and more. Which made me think of legos and how I loved to build and then they disappeared too and where was everything?

I had some toast and was downstairs. I was tired so I slept and wished I was in the hills with something more substantial but again nothing and the nada and it all permeated and I want to simply exist in it but for that to happen requires either one or the other. The first being that everyone and everything stop existing except for myself. That way I am in nothing with no struggle to bind me out of it. Which is interesting because struggle and want is what destroys the idea of simply existing in nothing and that way you can’t live in it and you are caught in this insane loop until you die unless that it happens. Or then you get the second where if it happened it would be insane because the world would simply be nuts to agree on it; to all decided that the only way everything and everyone stop existing in the sense of the struggle is to not fight it and then that leaves everyone existing in the nothing with nothing to pull you out. Which is also horrifying I suppose but rather pretty in other terms and its all a giant choice out there that might have already been made so its only a surface level choice where you go deeper and deeper and realize that it was all there to begin with.

Now that sort of left things at the couch and the fan down there where I just then decided. This is enough and I read a book and showered in the hot water and thought about things some more and went to my desk and picked up on waves of nostalgia of beautiful girls and the wintertime and finding one and then eating late at night while talking about stuff and having sex in beds and in cars and smoking on the outskirts of town and sitting on bluffs and looking past mountains and then taking long trips in the winter during break before the leaving and the fall of the time and a different time after. Of everything in the past.


I read some of the Atlantic and there was good fiction and essays in it. But now I am confused and don’t know where what I write belongs and maybe it just belongs with me and then from there it spreads instead of having it belong to the magazine and letting spread from that point. The only problem is I am far less connected than a magazine and reach such a small sum that the impact is still great and noticeable but in the society and life it requires more and then I need it to be there so I suppose its just a matter of finding it.

I am starting to have a great love for stringing together everything like those paper loops you make as a kid and for a party hang them above everything. Or great electric wires that hover above the city and stretch from one end to another with a simple AND in between and a THEN to channel. Its neat and I’m taken to it and it makes the writing far more enjoyable and less of a chance at trying but see here; this is alive and it flows and bounces and chuckles and dives. And we all live it and read it and take it to being alive.


the town is lonely. why don’t you give it some company?

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