On Writing, or Why Write?

"Every book tells a different story to the person who reads it," Goninan explained. "How they perceive that book will depend on who they are. A good book reflects the reader, as much as it illuminates the author's text."

I think about all of the hours that I have spent in this role as creator, as the Holy Mother of my own demise. Somehow, the years have passed without so much as a whisper. We have stripped off the clothes of so many moments, we have forgotten which ones we fucked and which ones fucked us. We have given birth to ten thousand bastard thoughts, left alone in the cold empty recesses of our mind, clinging to the walls like the lost children that they have become. We have let the mind control seep from underneath the door, we have found a home in comfort and delusion. For a long time, I pissed and whined about the losers who had fallen in love with Doctor Dream, our heroine in some chapters, and how the numbness was just no good, just not right for the creative mind. Somehow, in my despair and in my need for attention, I fell into a comfort trance of my own. I became numb in my comfort zones. I fell in love with my own sadness, futility and doubt. I made a home out of the closet and friends out of the midgets, as they chewed away at my ankles. I allowed the spiders and the thieves to build webs around the best parts of me.

Of course, as an interested, if not spellbound reader, you have to be asking this fragile text and me-

"Why? Why did you stop living in the world of feeling? Why did you stop creating? Lose your coiled voice among the quiet?"

The only answer you will find will be that evil bastard Love. After awakening the beast, and watching him tear through everything that we owned, we were glad to get the monster back into his cage. We shut down everything and packed up the tent, moving in the dark of night away from the madness as fast as we could. Let there be no excuses. It was Love's fault. Love was the reason why I stopped feeling and Love is the reason why I kept my thoughts locked away for as long as I did. What kind of person is Love to make someone censor themselves, like that? Of course, I knew you were about to ask. Unrequited Love, reckless Love, Love decked out in lies and promises, screaming Love- they are all guilty of playing in the game of stealing his heart.

Skin and bones, our hero staggered from door-to-door, trying his key in every lock along the way. In the cold and darkness, his hollow body could move no more. He sat down against a tree and just went to sleep. He had no trust in carrying on.

"Who stole your heart? Was it a trickster using mirrors and sleight-of-hand?" she sings to me, "You have gone to the witches, the good, bad, and indifferent."

How many times will you step off the plank and into the cold splash of the sea? You look at me like I came here with a whole pile of answers just waiting to be matched up with the appropriate question. Sorry, but it is not as easy as all that. We are a little more complicated than your average text, the always friendly grocery list or airport runway novel. We are going to make you work for your answers. Blame it on those dead bastards Foucault, Burroughs and Acker for murdering the author and making the text into a bunch of personal codes and rapid-fire discourses that refused the dissimulation of control. It is not my fault that the reader is not allowed to see the dress rehearsals.

Although usually comfortable with the usual forms of improvisation, the restless audience stirs in their seats, looking for a motive, fearing that he truly may be making shit up as he goes along.

"Relax, people, it is all part of the act. Sit back, read your menus and your playbills and enjoy the show. You must always remember: We are only here for one thing and one thing only and that is to entertain you." The barker looks somewhat like an airline attendant on speed, life preserver around her neck, and parachute on her back. "Don't panic! You are not always just about to die."

The last thing an author-less mutilated and mutated text needs is a lost audience crawling around looking for footnotes or a map, right in the middle of its day. Somebody remind the editor to insert a map in here, about now. I think you must know by now that some things are just better left unsaid. Now, you can understand my silence. Roaming through the night, alone and with the river seducing me, it became hard to believe that there was anything to say worth believing, anything worth believing enough to say. Meanwhile, back at the Ranch, all of his heroes died in one big pile. There were mourning flowers arranged for weeks.

With that, the authorless text sits quiet in the dark, not saying a word.

 

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