i’ve said, written this, time and again, how a friend of mine, while in the midst of working through what he believed were some severe issues, had read a batch of my writing, some of the strong experimental stuff i had been writing just before i met up with Blitz, he said to me, with a bit of a gleam in his eye, “how does it feel to be insane?”
and although much of the passion is gone, i can still see it now and then, that madness to writing, or rather that madness i like in myself when i am writing mad things.
and i think that’s what i’d like all the time, that kind of automatic freefall, moving it along more and more off center, immediate imagination, disregard for waking logic, synaptic semantic roulette. but, i also feel that there has to be a catalog of this life i am living, detailing my life somewhere to be remember somewhen and hopefully some other someone than myself.
is the writing itself enough of a marker. can it be thin enough to see what life was happening?