Goddamned writers, man.

Writers.

They are under no obligation to create metaphysical coherence; only meaningful stories. Narratives, after all, defy coherence; they are the source of it.  Narratives make sense only because they themselves demand it; to hell with objectivity and all else. As with law and justice systems, they take a bastard of a moment to institutionalize themselves when there were previously none; and then in a stroke worthy of Fyodor Karamazov, make it stretch backward such that time only happens when the law becomes instituted. 

They are not allowed banal self-doubt: their doubt is higher than that. Reality will fall to ashes in such a Cartesian gaze. In dealing with a writer you cannot have self-doubt, or you will die, your sorry state of personal history rendered to utter nothingness. 

They gaze at you with eyes worse than hell: for at least in hell, your soul is valued. It is eyesight that sees nothing because it sees everything all at once, all their words in deadly formation of a dance and a battle between two samurai cohabiting the same brain.

They fill nothing with things: and in so doing populate the empty space between atoms with yarns so exquisite in their formulation it has always been true. History has always been complete. 

They do not lie; only tell you truths that your brain cannot accept - for literature does not happen in the brain: it happens along the region from your heart to somewhere in the vicinity of your groin.

They are orphan planets: their suns burned out eons ago, they now orbit according to the gravity of the galaxy they inhabit, much to the derision and judgment of other planets whose mother is a young bitch of a sun.

They are ultimately alone: their words their only company, and even then, when words do not suffice.. - No, they cannot finish this thought. Words suffice. They are the only things that do. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mental disorders: Thoughts on a whatever something or other

I suppose I could start in plainer English discussing who I am as a layman not trained in psychoanalytic language, and if so will revert to the language that I do use when discussing anything worth discussing: half academic and half wit (indistinguishable at times from being a halfwit). As a layman I chose to major in philosophy, for better or worse, which is a fast track to being witty, or being a halfwit, and other things besides. Or I could start with a bombardment of links mostly pertaining to The Diagnostic Statistical Manual   IV and V  and increasingly technical accounts of co-morbidity and dual diagnoses involving bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder until we both drown in jargon I will not be able to understand, much less simplify. For DSM-IV diagnostic criteria regarding bipolar disorders types I and II, look at  this  if you want a full jargon drowning, or  this instead  if only for its simplicity and overall pleasant color sche...
Read more

Sketch: "Eye Contact" in Shawn Wong's American Knees

Shawn Hsu Wong is a second-generation Chinese American, born in Oakland, California in 1949. He obtained his undergraduate degree in English at the University of California at Berkeley in 1971 and his Master’s Degree in Creative Writing at the San Francisco State University in 1974. After teaching in several colleges and universities, he is presently a Professor specializing in Creative Writing and Asian American Studies, at the University of Washington, where he is also the director of the University Honors Program. His multi-awarded works include Homebase , first published in 1979, as well as edited and coedited works Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Asian American Writers (1974) and The Big Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Chinese America and Japanese America in Literature (1991), among four other anthologies. Wong has been awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship and a Rockefeller Foundation residency in Italy, and has won several awards including first pr...
Read more

Of finding something again

Image
I just sleep. I sleep to rest, to be away from the world that has given me so much and that I am not a part of anyway, to reset, to die. If only for a while.  I wake up and look at my phone, as all of us do now. The world painfully worlds, with no pauses and preambles: it elbows you in the face with all its glory, its vapid bitches, and all the iterations of the Andrew Tates of humankind. In everything we have a choice, save for one: this world. It is the ultimate given, the ultimate, ungentle, fact, and that we are in it. It doesn't stop. It can't; it doesn't have to. Immediately upon waking I close my eyes and dive deep into the recesses of whatever that was young that's left of me to desperately hunt for reserves of a desire to get up from bed, to work, to be . Two days ago I joked with my lover that I had been tired since 1984, and I think I mean it.  If not for him and another friend that gave me the time of the day in the MMORPG that I returned to, I would have ro...
Read more