2003-06-08
it's nice to know exactly where you're going
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but, i'm in no mood to pretend
I cannot recall the last time I wrote something pregnant with true sincerity, sans the abundant, unraveling fear something should be censored or, conversely, detailed. I enshrouded myself in all things Anais Nin; in the dark, I felt the path of symbolic prose against purple-polished toenails. This is the veritable sensuality in text; an epiphany ensued.
Who am I if not a woman who writes? When was the last time I purchased a note-book and indited myself between the lines, above the lines, over the lines, margins of my angular penmanship filled and sparkling and lit with subconscious ideas, fantasies, disorder amongst my verbose desires. When was the last time I inhaled Heineken until bracing a ball-point pen became tedious, and I transformed cotton into a mosaic of phrases, sentences imbued with banal experience transposed into electrified words.
When was the last time I rejected the criticism of others and bled textual soliloquy sex into this javasscipt box? The great abdication of hindrances in my subsistence has yet to arrive, though I believe with each keystroke, it's solidifying itself into a reality.
I do not extract myself from my experiences; there is no fiction within these pages. Too often, people are swept into the encumbrance of human pattern. I misplaced, momentarily, my ability to avulse the honesty of my nonfiction from the deceptive entertainment of fiction, though they were initially sutured to form one, perversely. Imagination is key; it takes an imagination of skill to turn the most mundane act of human sociology into a flamboyance of images.
I believe that what I'm endeavoring to get across is the fact that if I want to write about my face between the legs of another female, who was golden and smelled of vanilla, while I myself was filled to the brim on barium sulfate, iodine, and beer, then, I don't believe there's any barricade, anymore, to cease my efforts of updating.
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That is all. Dot, dot. Fini.
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time & machine