Anybody can write about writing when they write. The physical marks on the page, or pataphysical squibbly dos and don’ts that darken your desk from the accursed holyholoteloscreen in front of which you now sit, dear reader, are evidence of the manifestation of the writer as writer. And so anything that comes out can be considered writing, whether or not the blood is up and the mind is fucking the stars with artistic might, whether or not the modern muse sits sipping expensive waters and playing on her communicator beacon, waiting for godsknowwhat. Don’t you see that what I’m writing is written writing, held up by angels in the dark lord’s court of giggling fuck cattle, as written as anything that has come before? The writing writ large as Writ for some to see. Like you, dear reader.
Continue to allow me access to you language centers and I will attempt to emboozle you well.
Good morning, good afternoon, and goodnight.
I remember screaming and whisky drinking as the hour came upon us. Another tick of the sun, another moon to hail and to wonder about (space rock ark ship lizard hive mad mother birthed by ripping. A piece of Earth projected into the void to forever turn and help us climb into our own heads.)
This the time of new beginnings and here I am with the same brain. Fuck. I suppose I shall use it, clunky as it is. Familiar ruts lead to mud after a while. Gotta build streets and crush beneath them the life that made this place interesting in the first place. New paths, though difficult to blaze, add structure to this slop world I’ve created with my perceptions. False interpretations taken as golden rules have turned this wilderness of ideas into an office building of filed and collated take-for-granteds.
And how would you wipe the slate clean without losing who you are? What rocks are there to cling to when set adrift in the void? Is that the goal, to get Out? To float silently has never been the point. After all, I’m still on Earth. So I set fire to the village I’ve been living in the last few years and the mud becomes hard like concrete and the streets we vowed to never pave come up from the ground. Now I have to move on, to take to the wilds for a while and see what there is to see down the dark, dank ways. In the least, with my wanderings I entertain the angels who often become so bored with me that they doubt their own flimsy existence so still have they become.
It’s time to build the saucer myself and stop waiting for lights in the sky.
Scum Suck, orphan of the Low Plains, sees the bauble fall and bounce and fall some more, down into the shit and filth of the gutter and he waits for the Fancy Man to pause in his saunter, take from his soft, white hand his walking glove and dip his shiny fingers in the muck to retrieve the golden trinket. But the Fancy Man continues on and talks and twirls without a care, though he must have seen it fall. He had been holding it but moments ago. Yet there he goes, into a solid house of brick and wood and out of the windy streets.
Scum Suck dodges dogs and dangerous dandies, kicks and chiding and spittle, until the bauble lies before him, twinkling beneath the gray water and floating excrement. His hands were created dirty and down they go, unperturbed. But he is not strong, not strong enough indeed to lift the weight of the bauble dropped by the Fancy Man, and there he is now as he has been forever, leaning over the gutter, staring into the sloshing refuse, refusing to let go of the shiny Shiny until his teeth fall out and his eyes blind over and his back locks up like a wooden doll.
Better that a dog chew off your arm at the elbow, little Scum Suck. There is freedom in a bleeding stump.
The first post on the Word Virus page is now up: the review On 300,000,000 by Blake Butler (that I realize as I look it over could also be categorized as a rant and a manifesto as well).
More to come on that page as I crawl through literature and all things resembling such.
And so it begins, the overstretching of One that seeks to grasp Others and take hold.
An experiment is taking place on these pages: to see if script can, when interpreted by an Other, graft itself into the fleshy parts of the brain and become a canyon in the desert of mind. Can mere words become a virus again, usurped as they are by sterile mass-image-orgy-gimme-gimme-now anti-script?
Having edited my own meat static, I will attempt to edit the process Youniverse-X with nothing but the symbols reflected now in your eyes.
Let us begin.