Wednesday, October 29, 2008

At ease, little girl, I want to be your drug czar

Solitude is a constructive aloneness. Loneliness is a de(con)structive aloneness. With which one must battle. In order to write. Either both are dangerous or neither is dangerous. Enough. In a room with mauve carpeting I battle both. Together. They team a tightrope. I hold a long stick for balance. A cane. The fan runs in the bathroom when the light is on(e). The lemon soap my mother gifted me smells lemony. I mute the TV while reading to offer the appearance of voices. Of company. I am attracted to the woman on the weather.
The book is a negotiation between what the writer thinks it may be comprised of and what actually comes to be, which until its arrival must remain unknown. Unbeknownst to me an addiction to between the sides of this negotiation. This would make for forgettable TV. I forget why.
There is nothing I can say.

There is nothing I can write.

There should be a writing of non-writing. Someday it will come. A brief writing, without grammar, a writing of words alone. Words without supporting grammar. Lost. Written, there. And immediately left behind.

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