they told me i was not allowed
to talk to you, but you know what i said?
i said fuck it! why not? who else am I to talk to?
you don’t mind, do you? i know you don’t, reader.
unfortunatly this is my mono a mono monologue.
and you, reader, are my character? so do you feel
like playing along with me? or do you have something
better to do? Perhaps you think you have more important
things to do? Do you? What are they? can you name a few?
perhaps you haven’t finished reading the classics?
am i that much worse? do i really need critical acclaim?
isn’t it more fun this way? that is, one day i may become
a classic myself – and you, would have ‘discovered’ me first.
it’s riskier this way, i know. you’ll never forgive yourself
if you wasted your time on another rambler. but is not each
author’s book a rant itself? each poets poem but a familiar song;
once you read a few, haven’t you noticed where they all lead you to?
they say it all in different ways, some say it a lot more beautifully than
others, some are to the point, sometimes crude, at times, rude, but eventually
you arrive: in a place, said by one, where you began, but know for the first time;
is that true? all these arrivals and departures, haven’t they started to make you sick
yet? the writer keeps leading you through his, it seems to him, beautifully contrived,
elaborately decorated, mechanically masterful, structurally brilliant, webs of words, and
critics applaud; not of course, without a touch of sarcasam, or one of their own
elaborately decorated, mechanically masterful, bohemian insults – see? just like that?
did you notice? did you catch it? after all, is it not a waste for the writer to engage
in critical assaults on the critics? i think it is – i shall say no more. let us begin
then, shall we? i know, you think we’ve already begun, do you? But if we’ve already begun,
then dear reader could you please help the author out? you see we are already in the middle
and yet I am lost, i am not sure as to where i am, as to where i have taken us. i’m glad
that you’re with me though – without you it would be very lonely – being lost in these
words all by myself. it’s nice to get lost together, wouldn’t you agree? i’ve always enjoyed
getting lost anyway; when i was little and my mother drove me around – back in those days –
getting lost was always exciting for me. was it that way for you too, reader? if it was, i guess
you won’t mind drifting away with me for a little bit then, will you; seeing how you’ve already
swam out so far with me, you must be curious as to where this is all going, arn’t you? it would
have been a total waste if this didn’t go somewhere, wouldn’t it? that’s how i would feel, afterall,
the author is as much on a journey as is the reader; and quite honestly, my curiosity is fully
engaged right now. i’m very curious as to how i’ll write my way out of this, seemingly odd and absurd,
monologue. but it isn’t really that way, now is it? if it really was that odd and absurd, would you have
kept reading? i know, i know, there is something to this; it’s just, i can’t yet figure it out.
perhaps, there is something to the line spacing; i’m sure by now you’ve taken notice that i don’t
end the lines at the same spots. i’ve noticed too. maybe it’s the fact that i don’t capatalize the
first letter of every sentence, or my i’s. but that’s been done before, it’s nothing new. there’s
really nothing to that. so i’ll stop playing with the line spacing – but i definitally will
not start to capatalize my letters. that scares me.
you see reader, i know it seems to you that authors
are getting more and more presumptuous as history goes
on. we’re breaking every rule we can come across,
but, reader, and please believe me, i can only speak
for myself – the truth is, i am very scared, scared
of you. that is why i do not capatalize myself, that,
and the fact that i no longer believe myself to be
that important. i am a mere apparition, reader, and so
are my words. i know that scares you reader, i know,
because you are smart, you are intuitive, and you,
realize that you too, are a mere apparition. mere,
i say, yes mere – did you think yourself special?
perhaps you thought you were something more than a mere
apparition? but arn’t you passed the ‘meant to be’ stage
yet? arn’t you passed the fact that only your mother finds
you special? as for your father, well i don’t know, you
you know best of course. i’m not here to convince you of
anything. i guess, if i wish to be literary, or perhaps just
corny, whichever suits you better, i should say that i am but
a traveler on a journey – a journey for one random reason or
another, and you’ve decided to travel with me. why? well that is
my question as well as yours. oh, and reader, i dare not call you
friend, unless you wish to become one. you see how scared i am
reader? i know, from my own experience, that when i read an author,
when i feel a kinship towards them, all that i ever want is to
befriend them – and here i am, the author, terrified of asking
to be your friend. i don’t know why i’m like this, reader, honestly;
well, i probably could figure it out if i decided to do some
introspection right now – but that also scares me. so i won’t do it.
you know what, i’ve realized why i spaced the lines like that:
i’m scared to be closed in. i’m scared to be restricted by ending a line in
a certain point. do you know what i mean? it’s not that i want to rebel, it not
that i’m trying to subtly add some type of meaning, or be different in order to call
myself original, it’s just that i’m terrified of being suffocated by someone else’s rules.
do you know what i mean, friend? is that alright? we’ll never meet, i know that,
but friend is such a nice word; i know it felt nice to write, did it feel nice to read?
i hope it did, but i’m terrified that i may have been too bold. by the way, right here, friend, is where
all the thinkers, psychologists, philosophers, critics, and everyone else will be begining to psychoanalyse
me. everyone believes themselves to be an expert on other people’s psyche’s these days.
but they will never understand, though that will never stop them from thinking that they’ve
understood. they are all obssessed with trying to understand, but, i don’t know about you, i’ve
stopped trying to understand a long time ago. i might say, if i were being witty, that
i’ve understood that there is nothing to understand – not in these matters anyway. when it comes to
asking the questions of why we do the things we do, when it comes to asking the questions of why
we act the way we act, write the way we write, paint the way we paint, there are no answers. the
artist, the painter, the writer, is just as clueless as the observer, the reader, the philosopher,
and the critic. and those that say they know why they do what they do, they understand their own art,
well, truthfully, i would call such a man or woman, a liar. let’s not forget the women – they’ve
been excluded from literature for long enough. i’m well aware friend, that you may very well be
one from the more enduring sex. if you are, i hope i do not offend you. because, other than the
critics, i wish to offend no one. and i only wish to offend the critics, well, because friend,
i am afraid of them. i am afraid that they will offend me, so this is my clever way of producing a
pre-emptive strike. i know i know. i promised i would not talk of them anymore. you’re right. i’m sorry.
i will say no more. let’s forget them. let’s just go exploring together. where would you like to go?
Oh, right, silly me – you don’t really have a choice in the matter. well, i can begin to describe
with words places, things, and people that i’ve seen in my life. but that’s really not much fun for
you, is it – if you stop to think about it every now and then, i’m sure you would have realized that
you’re better off to go out exploring the real world yourself, then read about it from me or someone
else. of course, some authors can show you places that exist in different times, in different eras,
but that really doesn’t change the physical descriptions, does it? arn’t the colors still the same,
arn’t the people still the same – maybe not in how they talk – but certainly in how they
look, and walk. hasn’t the russian count described to ad nasuem people’s gaits and what they
represent? i’m sorry for the allusion, i will not make any more – it doesn’t seem fair to those
who don’t get it; know what i mean? i don’t want to create Finnigan’s Wake here – i know, i couldn’t
resist. i’m sorry. if it makes you feel better, i havn’t read Finnigan’s Wake either. but i know of it,
probably the same way you do – what a pity. the guy spent years writing one of those prolific books,
became world famous, lived the cliché bohemian lifestle, and now he’s gotten to be so big, that people
don’t even read his book anymore, they just throw around the title to sound literary. personally, i would
prefer to write a book and have it read, even if only by a few, to have it mean something to a few, then
to become world renowned to the point where people don’t read my book but have heard enough about it to
just throw the title around in order to sound intellectual. that’s not what i want, so, i’ve decided that i
won’t have a point to this monologue. i’m telling you straight out – and no, my point is not to not have a point –
i’m simply writing; perhaps, you’d say at random, yes? well, yes and no.
but, you don’t really want a critique, do you?
on a personal note i’m mad that Bush (or should i say his staff writers) have added a term to our vernacular: pre-emptive strike.
it just…makes me mad.