The persistence of memory as it crawls through my skin: re-invention I think I came off to them as being stuffy or witty or over exerting myself into their clutches: “so you’re not in the doctorate program?” I wanted to ask “how do you know?” but I was afraid the answer was going to be like “well, what you said before about being the new guy and re-inventing yourself came off as something a first year MA would say just to get the ball rolling, you know” and he would look at me and add, “someone who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about when confronted with the big leagues.”
And he would be absolutely right. Oh god, how I miss the falling of writing, the sky dive head over heel freedom of going anywhere and not having a thing to really say. To let it just all hang. To stare at this keyboard and slowly mouth out the words out of my head and just follow them without having to prove anything: to breathe instead administrating CPR to my literary corpse of lung sorts. To re-introduce myself to language and let it all hang about the rafters until it congealed on its own.
That’s why you haven’t been writing old boy: you’ve waiting for bestsellers when you haven’t dug around in the garbage enough: what happened to the fun of it old boy? Y’know, the doing and writing for writing’s sake, when it was all you had and you hung onto it like a vein.
Yes. I now understand when the shit is ready to fall out of my ass and I have to stop.
Later. Welcome home.