Tea, Cigarettes, and lines of Coke

Tea, Cigarettes, and lines of Coke

That’s all a writer really needs. And maybe, to not have walked the streets self-absorbed. Eyes.

I sat cross-legged on my porch, in a rocking chair, a little after midnight. Across the street, through two backyards, in a co-op similar to my own, one of the windows had a light on. There was a red oak desk I could make out, and oddly, the artificial light looked great.

I imagined an old writer living there. Maybe he was on a bathroom break; maybe he was circling his living room; maybe he was looking inside an encyclopedia for inspiration. Maybe it was a she.

What storm would she present to the world, I wondered, as I sipped my tea and made love to my cigarette; the sixth I had that hour. Cocaine by itself just doesn’t make the heart beat fast enough.

There was no writer at the desk, but if there were, I wondered what they had to offer.

Would she share experiences of sexual encounters? Would she, or he, vicariously live the fictitious lives of characters masquerading as themselves in microsoft word? Is not pornography better? What about tales of dreadful childhoods, isolation, teen years? I certainly hoped they wouldn’t dream writing about high school or college experiences. Why reminisce on that past? Especially about people one wouldn’t want to say hello to if they ran into in real life.

Fiction is a strange art. I don’t think, though maybe I’m wrong, writers willingly choose their subject matter, or subjects. It’s like a coke addiction, maybe. Type feels good. Praise, applause, even weird looks, and, “What the hell is this?” are forms of pleasure to the writer. Perhaps, if there was a writer in that apartment down the street, all he was looking for was a response. Just provocation.

Did she intend to ignite passion? How would she? Are words that powerful? The imagination so gifted? Some say it’s about the characters. Others say, Ideas. With a capital I. And then there are theories. Change consciousness. Mark the changes in consciousness. Trace. I say, the writer is a caveman.

An odd phenomenon.

I should probably just discuss one writer, that imaginary writer, writing across the street at 2:30 a.m. Maybe she is just like me, though worlds apart. I see her light a cigarette. She types, and I imagine:

Anna had strange thoughts, too strange to share. (I imagine Anna is a mask the writer hides herself behind.) She didn’t have many real friends, so she stayed in her room, in her mind, most of the time. (Why did she go to youth?) She loved the color purple. Didn’t go on a date until senior year. (Does she think this is important for people to know? I can see her. She is an old woman. Her form really moves me, so beautiful to see an old woman, by herself, on a computer, typing in the middle of the night. I’m sure she has something, something a bit more worthwhile to share than some teenage drama.)

You are right! I’m spewing drivel again.
But life, and I know having already lived it,
is mostly about loneliness, death, a brush of love,
a few gestures of friendship, and despair.
Happiness has always been made-up. When alone,
in despair, writers and artists, wrote or painted
happiness, to escape misery. Who are you anyway?
Perhaps you should share an idea with me, Sir? Madam?
Maybe alien creature of a past life’s imagination?

I thought about this. She had a point. But as I saw us communicate through type, it seemed to sprout like a violet out of my ear: Communication! Communion! Doesn’t that solve things? Is that worthwhile? Let’s not name ourselves. I think I’m going to like you.

Death. We will lose one another, always sooner than we expect,
and what then of our fleeting signs?

You are probably right. I am only twenty-two. I live across the street. Probably the only light that’s on right now. I guess, I still long to find something adequate. I’m here exploring type, sometimes surprising myself, looking, searching, for a key to unlock, goodness in myself, and in others. Do you think I’m foolish?

Sometimes, I just like to learn about other people. Don’t you find learning about universal isolation, is consoling? And sometimes, inspiration simply inspires me to inspire others.

Read the Ancients. Even a few moderns of the last century.
I am not as vain. You are a man, aren’t you?
Set your aims a bit lower. The spirit of the last century,
and it is the only spirit which will “inspire” you,
is too ugly, too mad, too treacherous, to be worthwhile
to turn into “Art.” It won’t help you inspire. It is time to entertain.
Offer them candy, and they’ll buy. Show them who they are,
and they’ll resent you, not believe you, and what’s more,
those who will come later, will ignore you; for other centuries,
will inspire the future. Ours… is just a bad memory; to be ignored.

Weren’t you just writing about an isolated girl?

Yes. Thoughts are tangled webs spun out of control
like 20th century art. I suppose I am the result. I apologize.
Let’s go by the water, it calms me and I tend to make more sense.
Should we turn on the sun, or the stars?

Can we have a red sunset beneath the already lit suspension bridge, and sit on a bench with our backs against one another, writing letters to each other on legal pads? Your legs, are crossed and stretched out on the bench. Or would you prefer to choose your own form?

Formlessness never minds form.
That is why I wanted to be by the water.
I am, however, a young girl. You be an old man.
I’m sick of being old.

Great idea! But I’m stunning. One of those really beautiful old men, with youth somehow maintained in their face. Not their eyes, their face. And a brimming white beard I can play with. Dear granddaughter,

Excellent. I never knew my grandpa,
he died in the war. You know, History.
Did you see them? The couple with the Pomeranians.
The dogs looked like copies of one another.
And even the couple seemed to be composed of identical atoms,
just different organs. More like brother and sister.
Yes, maybe I assumed incorrectly. Isn’t beauty plain sometimes?
Are you more wise because of the books you’ve read,
or because of the experiences you’ve had?

The only measure of wisdom I’ve encountered, is to read about experiences I’ve encrypted in my past. Don’t you think this is very bad fiction? Who will believe this?

Why do you think I was writing about a quirky girl?
My readers read about themselves when they believe
they are like who they read about to discover themselves
in order to create themselves differently. Don’t you understand?
Television has disintegrated Identity. Some still want to build from books.
So my girl likes purple. If they catch something like themselves,
they’ll one day have a purple room.
(You didn’t really think of this at the time you wrote, did you?)
How would you ever know the way my mind works? Even I don’t.
But I’ve learned enough to know how minds work en masse.
And besides, I saw a girl with a purple room on That’s So Raven.

Would anyone besides a writer be interested in this?

Maybe a dolphin, if he could read.

Did you think I was a person pretending to be a writer?
I am a form acting as a woman pretending to be a writer
who is a girl inside of a dying body presenting words
because it was programmed to do so by those I admired
in my youth because they inspired me more than others,
who I now mimic, and rage against, rebel against, scramble
the programming within my written system of formlessness
taken on the form of madness reflected in the recent history
of Minds Gone Mad due to post-atomic advances, in an attempt
to maintain something humane, through an irrational defiance
of systematic molding of formlessness into a programmed artist,
rebelling, see, within the system, through the system, programmed
by the system, in order to undermine the system, while really being
an essential part, support, pillar, holding intact, the very system
the form rebels against. That’s been my life dilemma as a writer.

Now why not write that?

If you understood what I said,
then you would have understood precisely why
NOT to write that.

The only truth I know is that I am really aroused by you. Sexually. Are you afraid of me?

I do not fear words on a page. I do not understand you, that is true.
You may be a new phenomenon produced by the last century.
I do not understand attraction to something that repulses me.
Is it the idea, with death so near, that attracts you to me?
You love death too much. See it from my eyes,
would you make love to your son?

Maybe, if I understood that such is the only way toward spiritual Liberation. And not on a page either. I’m probably not talented enough to convince you. Besides, seduction is the art that terrifies me most. Even if, writing is just as deceptive, seduction only has one end in view.

Never mind that. Stop the foolishness! You won’t succeed.
Not even with poetry. Age grants immunities you have yet to fathom.
I warned you about inspiration. The 20th century,
and our inheritance of its spirit, is nothing short of lewd.

We are mad. Both of us. At least, wouldn’t you agree, we can dance in the circus together. Fuck me.

Grotesque. A modern masterpiece. Look at him. Profane…
I’m swept off my feet. Rodent. Kafkaesque manifestation!
How beautiful. Leave me! I’ve met more interesting characters.
Characters with character, moral qualms, well developed (through my help)
with spirits and longings and desires that didn’t rise from the gutters.

Is my desire not The ultimate rebellion?

You have nothing to rebel against.
Your rebellion is just another demonstration of vanity.

What will you write about when I’m gone?

My next tormentor.

What will that achieve?

Their destruction.

Were you high when you wrote this?

Yes, quite High. Maybe, quite Low. Doesn’t matter really . . . for one reason or another . . . I decided I’m okay every once in a while with a “What the Hell is this.” Hence the posting.

Every line of my Dionysian Nation was written whilst high. No more than a few at a time, though.