Actually, I won’t make promises I intend on breaking. There are just some things I know I have no control over: my hatred of telephones, Barbies, clowns (shutter)…and books like mosquitoes that suck away my precious fluids and leave behind only the hazy delirium of malaria---vile, viral texts…(Anyone else feeling the rush of catharsis?)
… A strong reaction to such a tiny thing: paper and glue and ink all pressed into a shape that sits in your hands, maybe your knees. There are so many options, the temptation to indulge in as many as possible and throw them (with equal gusto) away is too compelling. We are such animals of consumption that there is often no breath between eating and expelling---no satiation. I want a book that makes me want to breathe something wild and singular and sweet, like honeysuckle. I want the world to stop.
Wow. Waxing poetic about books---BOOKS….I just reread this passage and wonder: am I just talking about books, or something else? Passion of one sort often leads to another. I hope that is indeed the case. Or it might prove too easy to become one of those writers that spend their prime years hunched over a keyboard, preferring what’s in their swollen heads to what is real. But what I imagine is real---otherwise, I wouldn’t write it. It would be a big, fat, sloppy lie. And who wants to read a lie? If a book isn’t believable on some level, you stop reading it. I think humans have always striven to make sense out of chaos. We see patterns, we tell stories so that we do fill our pockets with stones…
How dare we call such blessings “fictions”?
Oy!
Just try living without narratives---let me know how far you get.
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