well here i am
writing
from the heart
or so i think
does that contradict itself?
Who knows, who cares. I’m writing,
isn’t that enough? Random thoughts
random words, I wonder if that is
enough to produce art? Or probably,
they’ll say it isn’t. Any fool can
simply write every word that pops
into his or her mind, but can every
person discriminate as to what is
worthy and what is not worthy to
present to his reader? Obviously not—
or else there would be no need for
high-minded, New York editors, right?
Well, whatever, I don’t care one bit.
I have words, and truth be told, I don’t
want them inside myself anymore, so to you,
white screen, I offer my shit.
I used to despise profanity – one
didn’t find any profanity in Dumas
and for that I loved him. He showed
me beauty in the world, without degrading
himself, or myself. Well, times sure have
changed, haven’t they?
What do you think that means? Times have changed?
Souls have changed, values have changed, art has
changed, meaning, we have changed.
Are we less, for changing so? Or are we dealing
with a world that our classic loves would also
be unable to comprehend? Our world, ladies and
jerks, is a difficult, post post-modern, post-
modern, encrypted, high-tech, nuclear, sub-atomic,
atomic, radio-active, decaying – inner-decay –
cyber-faced, ironic, satiric, idiosyncratic,
consumer valued, art devalued, psychopathic,
most definitely, neurotic, post-hippie, liberated
left-right absurdum abounding up down, left diagonal,
right diagonal, spell-checking, grammar fucking, post-
Che, pit of conscious streams of consciousness:
producing reflections of fragmented individualities,
meanings, philosophies, ideas, or, to put it simply,
contemporary madness.
Madness, there’s a notion not so easily defined.
But, the artists are aware now, aren’t they? Well,
the sane ones are. How’s that for irony? What have
we left? Where is art to take us now? More beauty?
More mirrors of mangled mentalities? That is,
if you didn’t get what I was saying, reflections
of a mad world – you know, try seeing the spoon
metaphor backwards. It’s the spoon that bends first
and the mind that follows, not the other way around;
despite what the trippers tell you.
Powerless? Is that what we are? Maybe. I don’t know.
What is power? Influence over others? Control? But,
take a look, our authors aren’t in control any longer.
The days of Tolstoys are past. Now come the characters
and the authors follow them wherever they want to go.
The omniscient authors are dead. And anyone who tries
to be one, he is not a man, but a writer. Nobody wants to
read what some writer has to say. At least, I don’t.
Psychologists, they’ve gone pretty far in this last
century, haven’t they? Not that I’ve been around, heck,
I was only born 20 years ago – and did anyone notice
that the first decade of the 2nd millennium is already on
the decline? I did. And what now? We can speak of the 90’s
as being the past – everyone is all of a sudden nostalgic
for the 90’s. Damn man. Why am I the only one who feels
nothing has changed?
Oh… here we go again, change. Well, I stopped writing for
a brief moment, I was attempting to organize my thoughts;
asking myself questions like: well, you’ve written all this
now what is the purpose of this, how will you end this, why
have you written this, where are you going with this, what
do you hope to achieve? I didn’t have an answer for any of
those questions. Phew. Thank god that’s over, because here
I am writing again without purpose or thought as to what
will come next, without organization or linkage to what has
come past, and, I’m relieved. Relieved to just be writing
without reason. Kind of like when I flow through the days,
which now seem to be years rolling down an odd looking
hill, not even bumpy. That’s what I like. And that’s what
connects all my words. Just being written, because I feel,
like writing.
Can you give a better answer than the one I just gave? I
can’t think of one, though, if you can, please send me a
letter or something, it sure would be interesting. We live,
well fuck that, I live, because I just want to live, and I
write, because I want to write. I’m well aware that this is
drivel, disorganized babble, but so what? It’s my babble
isn’t it? See that’s what counts – words on a page, written
for no reason, with glints of prospects here and there, but,
let’s be honest, mostly trash; and yet, after all that, at the
end I feel like I’ve actually accomplished something, and
why not? Look at how many words I’m writing and have
written. I sure feel like a writer now. Or an artist. Ah… who
knows. As long as I keep writing, something good is bound
to originate.
That’s what we tell ourselves in our minds, right? “Think,
think, keep thinking, sooner or later, something good is
bound to come together.†I mean, it’s not like we are actually
in control of our thoughts. If that’s true I wouldn’t be writing
here what I’ve written here, but I would be writing about
camp or something; I would be producing some great poetry
or novel, heck, that could not only produce a faint sense of
immortality, but it may very well earn me some dough as
well. And why not? As if art was a noble profession.
They like to make you think it is. Poets, artists, writers, they’ll
tell you it’s not "true art†if it’s done for the money, or fame, or
chicks. Sure sure . . . Dumas and Dostoevsky would certainly
have laughed at that cockeyed, modern notion. So don’t let
'em fool you. All writing is just delay of the inevitable anyway:
death.
Well, sometimes, it can be entertaining, and I think, probably,
don’t quote me on this, but very probably, the best books, the
best poems, are not the ones that make you think, or even cry,
but those that make you laugh, those that make you forget your
puny, sad, existence. But, if that’s my definition for good writing,
this piece certainly fails in that respect. So, if you could, since I’m
not deleting anything, please just forget what I just said and keep
reading. I mean, why not? If I wrote this, and you read so far,
why would you or I want to stop now?
Just forget the fact that you exist – I’ll help you by not mentioning
such a grotesque, though at times, fabulous, notion again – and
you, friend, just go ahead and get lost in whatever else my heart
produces.
The blogger age. How about that? Always classifying ages,
we, humans, are. No one ever asks you if you want to be part
of the Blogger age, or the age of irony, or the modern age,
and yet, they throw us all in there. Maybe we didn’t want to
be a part of this or that age, did anyone ever think of that?
And what about those people who resent being put into an
age? Oh, this doesn’t make sense to me, so I’ll leave you to
figure that out.
What I would like is just to write so damn much that I write myself
out of existence; or, if that’s a bit unclear, what I mean is, to write
out of me all these words so that I’ll be out of words to write. Get
it? But why would I want to send you my unwanted words? See,
that is precisely what troubles me. It means, that subconsciously,
I wish to be noticed, to be acclaimed, something of that nature,
right?
Text text text. When does it end? Nobody knows. Why did it start?
Nobody knows. Oh, right, sure, to communicate, right? Haha. I’ll
bet. Pass knowledge on? Create art? Haha! Yea yea… that’s what
language is for. No, I’ll tell you, it’s there for you to say: “Press the
red button, now!” It is our way of killing ourselves. Fine. If you can
make more sense than I, then you go write what’s in your heart
and leave me alone.
Maybe I should just reflect our world? Become a social
commentator. But why? What reason can I possibly have to
become a social commentator? I am disgusted by myself, and by
my society, and truth be told, nearly every society that I can
conceive of. So why comment on it? To comment upon society, is
to become noticed in, and a bigger part of, that very society or
culture upon which one comments. That is, until it comes to a
point where the commentators upon the society become the
society itself.
Take an author for example. He or she writes about his or her
times, and, then, given about 100 years, all we have left is the
author and his or her words. Maybe a few artifacts, films,
paintings, whatever; and that is what makes up the future’s
conception of a past society – what the social commentators have
said about it. Ridiculous!
I have a white ceiling, and beige walls. I chose the colors. Do you
think that means that I feel beige inside? Do you even know what
that means? No, seriously, do you? Common, I need some help
here.
Madness is a great thing isn’t it? Do you think when one goes mad,
one may actually find his or her sanity? What do you think about
that Nietzsche fellow? He finally went “crazy†at the end of his life,
and all his philosophy seems to have been a delay of what he knew
somewhere deep inside: “I’m mad.†I wonder why he bothered for
so many years. I think, honestly, I sort of already know that I’m
mad. I’m simply unable to go crazy. Or, actually, for all I know, I
could be crazy and hallucinating all of this right now? Right? It
may not be likely, but then again, it may very well be more likely
then I would like to admit.
Think about it. You just sit around in a room, hallucinations come
to you, you’re fed, probably, bathed (I guess?), injected with
drugs, fucked around with by shrinks, (don’t tell me that they
aren’t fun), and the kicker: no work. Sounds pretty fantastic to me.
No pun intended, jackoff.
I wish I were dead.
55 miles per hour, the wheels on the yellow bus
go round and round, round and round
i watch the ripe trees fly by outside the square
window:
green, full, summer trees
8:00 a.m. quiet morning.
heading away from the clamorous city, the big industrious
bustling city - still magical (but not today);
this summer day we’re off to the enchanted woods,
to Splish Splash! place with the Hugest wateRSLide
in the whole wide world! or so it seems to us.
Camp!
shortest, most wonderful, time under the sun.
On the way up, they never told us the slide down,
never ends.