While the world does the clockwork gig and moves through space, allowing days to slip by without much thought, I work my ass off trying to capture some part of the rotation. Capture it and call it mine. Make off with some undisclosed sum of hours and turn the mad dogs loose on the rest.
I'm no-one of consequence. I don't have the opinion of myself that you'd assume from my writing. What I'm trying to say is, I'm not worth your time. I am worth my own time, though, as gathered here in thousands of words, swept up in a drift of ridiculous. How much pretense can we pack into a single syllable?
I like my coffee like I like my women: bitter and hot.
What gets me now is distillation of language. Marketing has it down, they've distilled the language to the point where all depth of meaning is gone, buried under layers of lacquer and buffed to a high shine. This affects our speaking, our writing. I'm digging through a book on semiotics and the words assault my brain in the same shrinking location as a work by Umberto Eco; I need a dictionary to keep up. Chat programs, rushed minutes between rushed minutes, the time to live for each word is shortened by a factor of X. The same X that dominates our every second. So there's no point in color or pretense. Take everything about the words, make them white dwarves of verbal density. This sentence means everything. This sentence means nothing.
It goes without saying.
But what to take the picture of?
Remember when film was what fueled our cameras? When the phone was something tied to a location? When work and home were impossible to mix without a briefcase full of paper? When each byte cost a measureable sum, each word stored lovingly on paper? Our software stored on disks that cost real money? Our music on tape or vinyl, fragile and imperfect? Each digital step has eroded our moment. We're not slaves to it, we're junkies for it, and our words fall out with no regard to their origin, no regard to their demise. Where does this text end? In your cortex, away from my chattering reality, these words are a wash of a tide of random information.
So, here, I want only a piece of the rotation. I take it for myself, most often. The world turning, I require meaning for some of those moments slipping by. I require a marker. But the weight of my story has to stand up to the distractions. It has to have smooth edges, it has to come pre-assembled, it can't be something conjured in the space between my fingers and your brain.
No, it has to arrive with purpose. It is easiest if the story hits hard, has fire. Controversy. Sex. Blood. Politics, religion. But all of this, these hard edges, they wear down and lump into one anoying pile; at the end of the day, there is no recall, the words have only agitated. Poison Ivy has more purpose. Nothing gained from everything said.
I have a problem with my writing. I find that two things censor me, and you are one of them. You want cynical and angry, you want stories of fire and the ash that remains, rages fueled by alcohol and anger. Sharp words. Words chosen for impact and pounding rhythm. Like any good sweeps week audience. And that's what I am good at, one of the things I am good at (if I can be said to be good at any of this), is getting those loud emotions across. Those noisy and garish liminal pre-dawn moments.
I'm not there anymore. That was someone else.
These days I wait for nothing.
These days I find myself not lacking for words, but all the words lack fire, lack that ability to pull the moment. They lack gravity.
It's the strangest thing.
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