(I think one of the images contained within this post may not be safe for work. “I think” because I’m not 100% sure what is happening in that photo. Anyway, as always, it’s absolutely necessary.)
Ah fuck. At this moment me eyes are lazy, and my head, and I am writing in the hot flue of funk. Or in the acute ague of the hunt.
I’m here at the end of the world again. There’s a tomato crossing the plant. A hundred eyes of the shoe-shorn sheep stalk are blinking in rapidly successing. Oh, how a bird crossing in front of the apex and twirling as the sun beaten down before a broad faced man in red coveralls: can it be that there is no form or I have somehow forgot it?
What can be said, how can I say it? In a moment (many moments, in weeks) I will have to assemble my arms, legs, clothing into positions and steady self into the car, just to do my damn groceries. From then on my positioning will be operate by the (now lengthening) long distance of ash, fault not mine: we have accepted.
Assembling my self into the car I will check my mirror, stumble out, sit fat in the front seat, drive, peck through neighbourhoods on rubber heels pensive and gripping, speak to no-one, return, without exercise even, flip out of the heated chamber of my car, stumble to the front door, insert the key, remember the freedom of my youth, scream at the top of my lugs, open the door, collapse, get run over (metaphorically), die (I claim this as actual fact).
I’m afraid of this nonsense. I’m afraid of nonsense and the nonsense has entered my and boiled my reasons.
Here we are, a turnip taken from the coat, offered in foison, rescinded in—?
Pnin is a novel about a bald-headed man. The Tempest is about a Wizard. Persuasion is the story of Anne who finds herself a husband.
Tomorrow when I go to school I (what) oh fuck, how do I write? I’ll wake up early, punch for an hour or two (no harm?) at 10:20 or so leave, fleck my back break, bring my supply (hah! I’m writing nothing) and tick the tacked tock quick hip to my broken slipped disk. Do some other kind of work (with materials) that I’m now just thinking of.
Oh, this little plan of mine!
Write for two hours. Travel. Meeting with Day. Come the fuck back? Not worth it, stay, sort through the assembled (and extra) materials: Quixote, Winter’s Tale, Sources. Yes. Goal: (perhaps to be reached, perhaps not) have one black-browed essay start (to irrational) in hand before gone, then some source writing, then—hey, “Tutes”. And some come home and write.
Only five hundred words? Well, it’s something. Style is lost and needs to be found again, I write in stress, not reposing, but it’s definitely something. I could keep typing.