My Own Rampant Anomie

Sometimes sitting down to write is like being a piece of chum thrown to the sharks.

Ok, it’s not that bad. But something is always circling my chair. And it’s not my two cats. Or some mouse who’s found himself trapped, my two cats sneaking closer like the two killing machines they are but somehow disguise by all their listless slumber parties.

And it’s not the fan, rotating at a steady speed, keeping the room cool. And it’s not the pesky moth who has flown in to flutter like some great aperçus in the limelight. And it’s not the stack of books like precarious towers of babbling all within giddy reach and yet easily toppled. And it’s not God in his wide-wale cords and scuffed slippers, sipping on the matter of the universe, drunk with humanity, burping out the long stench of lies, with a wicked hangover of taboos.

It’s something, though. Something complex, paradoxical, multifarious, a kind of Voyager 1 in the outer solar system, orbiting, gathering info. And I’ dealing with termination shock as the electrically charged words become denser and hotter and slower. And maybe I really have entered this glorious polyphonic space where what I’ve written will turn out to be this modernist fiction that some pettifogging Brazilian writer will label as twit work. Or maybe it will be nothing more than a horsefly that stings a horse that bucks a rider who squashes an ant who carried a scrap of bread from the table of a writer who confounds, amuses, enlivens, angers, breaks hearts without bothering to put back together and splits the brain pan into sizzle and pop.

That something that keeps me company is a bit like gravity — a force everyone agrees on but nobody has atually seen or even truly explained. It’s the gravity of knowing you’re no good mixed with the moonage dream that you are better than all the rest — you live as a supernova and a red dwarf all in one big bang of creating a work of fiction.

And then that something leaves you at the speed of light and you are left sitting in your writing chair nursing a mug of tea and watching the moon like it’s a burlesque dancer and you can’t wait for something to shake loose and expose the truth that as a writer you simply keep yourself amused and engaged in the world by writing.


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