falling

i fall in love with each and every one of my characters and stories. i walk around seeing through a character's eyes, feeling through his, hers, or its biography. i mold my thoughts through the idiosyncrasies of my characters. i meet one or another that fits my unadulterated description of the character and i start exploring the real to construct the virtual. adulteration begins, fantasy and imagination do their magic, and i disappear. it is the only prayer and blessing that i know. it is escape.

it is time to cut the strings loose. it is time to let go of it all. it is time.

i like whores and adulterers.

i am falling. i am falling in love all over again. once more. it is not even for old time' sake.

 

fury and freedom

i have not been at this place for a while. i like hell, and i like dark places. intensity has been missing. i speak in staccato, or i do not speak at all. i give imperatives, or i do not give at all. discovery is miracle, and invention is salvation. i do not believe in anything at all!

it is one of those days when all that i can think of is rocks. rocks, not oxford cloth. rocks. it is one of those days when a migraine is a blessing, and penury is a beach resort. life is good, i fight. i am blind! blind. totally blind.

love not!

i love the night.

i am ignoring death.

death can wait; it always does.

i love the water.

i am drunk with the wind.

we return.

nights and days...

then there are taboos...

nights.

days.

taboos.

then there are the interstitials of god.

right now is all there is:

no god

no interstitial

no taboo

no day

no night

all, nothing.

maybe.

need

i have considered my needs.i have wondered. i have wandered i have flirted with insanity. i have seduced insanity.

deep into the writing of a novel, i start to draft another story that is not fiction. i can barely draw the distinction between fiction and non-fiction, much less keep them separate. i draw and all my frustration surfaces. i want to draw more. writing has became slow and tedious, a toiled labour. writing is my obsession. this is my predicament. it is my love. my love, my first love?

i could not have prepared better for this time. it could be that comfort is not what life is all about. i am curious.

 

are discomfort and ease ever simultaneously possible?

this winter i fell in love with a man, this spring i fell in love with a cherry tree.

i believe in nothing at all. not in the words, not in the images, not even in your existence

i need to breathe.