Hide from the plain in the abstract.
Hide from the line in the circle.
Follow artistic whims.
Portraits of the lost.
Rich, lyrical texture.
Live on the blade.
Be honest with yourself. Who are you trying to please?
The return of the muse. Bloodied and sick and raw and reaching. A disgusting attraction.
Whatever works. Whatever works.
They think you are pretentious when you show a side they don’t know, but every side is real.
There’s pushing someone out of their comfort zone, and then there’s trying to turn them into someone else. To mould them. Make them pliable.
Words as they originally tumble into this reality. Then, words reformed by reflection and intention. Lines drawn between that become spiderwebs, cobwebs, and finally dust. Impressions left behind.
Drifting rubbish.
If you’re not in love with your words, what are you doing? Immerse yourself in them. Absorb their qualities. Dance in their rhythm.
Like a pig in shit.
Got to keep that momentum, though. Ride those waves big.
I think of Rebis.
The matter of the double.
Then onwards [or backwards] to Hybridity.
The point at which something human becomes something else.
“That’s what interests me most. Two selves learning to play life out as one. The first, who didn’t know it was a self at all, needed the other to show it how to be. The conscious and the unconscious. The artificial and the organic. Coming together, making a hybrid. This will be the most divine experiment yet.”
I don’t know what they think a writer is if not someone who writes. Ink is in the blood.
As the tattooist thrusts in and out
With his needle, I think
This is the rhythm
This is the way it’s meant to be
In and out of awareness, of sense, of the world at large
We go
Gather the desire
Start the process
Be the process
Shrink back into obscurity
Turn on
Tune in
Drop out
I’m trying something out here. Looking for patterns, rhythms and connections in journaling and beauty in fragments. I’m looking for the point at which communication breaks down between writer and reader, where intrigue fails and where the key to subjectivity may lie. I join personal beats with character perspectives and notes for plot, as ever to play with the boundaries between fiction and reality. I’m looking for the line to ride.
The photograph in the header is my own, taken last month of an alleyway off Coney Street in York.
C.R. Dudley 