“Just write.”
Two words with which to battle writers block. L’empéchement d’imaginer. Where did it go? The energy, the will, the drive, the incessant need to write.
Obviously not incessant.
“Just write anything.”
I’ve become too wordy. Over-educated, over-read, where my goal was to be well-read. The spirit drowned in semantics. Used to flow easily, avec aisement, now confused doubly by two tongues, the translation versus les lacunes… and useless ellipses…
(Reading my old work, graphic representations of my thoughts, poems, lyrics, stories, cartoon strips, abstract chickens scratches, the blood of bic pens, the black marrow of papermate pencils… and the carbonite fading… so sad…)
What would it all look like scanned up online? Printed out and laid out on the carpet, page next to page, on top of page, under page, grey scribble twister board, the development of my developmental years.
Or what if I lost it all? Would I replace it? Am I replacing myself now? I am, am I? I’m, I’m I, I am I. How does the future look from the past look from the present… triple paned windows with dead flies and live flies buzzing for freedom, to be le mouche libre, ignoring the carcasses of their comrades, buzzing on, le bruit d’existence… and the air dries up, runs out, gaspillage.
Heavy memories churn me this slow October night. Christmas lights in a love room. What else can Christmas lights indoors convey? The cat sniffed my litter-box of spiral-bound accumulants. And what did the cat think?
“This is not food, water or worth pissing on.”
But the feline face still held the respect… that makes no sense, sorry. (Oh god, the condition is getting worse, caring less, it’s caring more that breeds true artistic indifference).
“Write something everyday.”
I’m lucky to have a constructive thought everyday. And as for critical thinking (or self-critical voices) that’s the garbage buzz, the foul milk of human greatness. Brain electrons, waves, cresting on the refuse shores, the garbage tankers, the strip mines. Pregnant thoughts birthing still calfs, wipe the placenta clear and call it art, hide the scars of the bic scalpel Cesarian… ink pumped emergencies…
(To think I used to worry about characters [characters?] and now it’s words, even single letters that haunt me. What is the french double ‘u’? the english ‘q’? and ‘v’ always freaks me out.)
And setting. I settle for dark rooms, nothing, detail pits for the deaf, the image deaf, soudre comme un pot. Blindly led of course, I lead my blind future self, l’avenir d’aveugle.
I see the flakes of stupidity, dead thoughts, on my pillow in the morning, brush them off, pick at dried semantics and wonder where all the energy went. Too many plugs and just wait for the fire. I’ll lose it all, swallow ashes and drink blackened liquid adrenaline. Doctors find the vacancy, my kidney stolen from me by my own students, scalpels and goggles and gas masks, avoiding my disease.
Strange shape the spiral. Holds it all together yet so easily distracts me, draws me aside. D’étruire. Luire qui d’étruire. French accents like different knives (lack modifier sharpens a sentence to new levels of dull) l’accent a grave, l’accent degue, l’accent circonflexe, the circonflexing accent. Oxymoron, style not consistent and to always split infinitives, and to wallow in deconstruction.
La dérive. The non-shore. No destination and you just keep going, filler, for future boredom. Dull days. Five years from now, alone, bad weather, sick of computer and television screens dry-burning your retinas and trying in myopia to decipher fade graphite.
The graphic graveyard.
Scribbled lines of embarrassed vestiges of time. Waiting for sleep and the next day in vain. The next game, the next point, the next breath. Till waiting is the constant buzz of everything. Le bruit d’existance.
And a sore back from half-hearted positions and getting up too fast and slowly sinking in blatant comfort.
“Write nothing.”
craig:bednar 