Tired of all this noise in language I don’t understand. I try the tongue, even carry it for a while, then realise they were never saying what I thought. Layers deep this symbolism, these insinuations. Playing a game that never existed on my home world. Long for it now. Reach for it with both hands, will my tears to carry me away as a deluge, but at best there’s mud. Mud packed around broken glass, shame and sheer terror at what they have done.
What they continue to do and don’t even know it. Can’t see the big picture, can’t know that a bullfight here is no tea party on the other side.
Top tier Will rips through.
Different modes of writing:
1. Purple note form, full of voice and specificity. Dense. Cut to the heart of it.
2. Dreamy long prose poetry. The art of the sentence.
3. Conversational writing, coded to fuck. Designed to blend in, to be the mask and the cherry on top. Hit all the notes, appeal to those with mass, leave soul at the door [cover].
4. So many aphorisms.
Travel through time never linear. Sort all of this out or whip up a storm. Knights without ever desiring it. Avoid the black holes best you can, little one.
Because the things I’m experiencing right now are the exact things that happened in my dreams last night. Subtle but exact.
Tangled up in some unnecessary shit.
If some somebody announces you as the next big thing, you should already have moved on. They lead to the graveyard, my friend.
Got the style, yeah, now find the depth. Need to dig deeper. If such a drug existed, how would it affect society? Who would have access to it, what would the legality be, how would it be harnessed by capitalists?
Acausal connections spinning around, painful static. Headaches.
Falling apart creeps up. Spiritual distress. Eyes on you feel dangerous, but there are so many you can’t escape them. They see the tears, don’t even know how; it’s a primal thing. Can sense you’re on your way. Pounce on the wounded, eat of their flesh.
Harsh words find their way down dusty streets. Hit you right in the groin when you least expect. “This little ginger kid, I’ve snapped him before.” Ruthless. Breathless.
The Minerva machine has crashed. Not enough water, probably. Air too dry. Trying to push it too hard and allowing it none of the things it likes in return. Stimulation, acceptance, pride. While it’s laid up, the other 3 machines distort. Need their sister. Rumble on without, create strings that put something onto the screen. Change the dimensions.
She’s off on a stream again! No one can follow, but she seems to be having a good time. Digging up rotten leaves, fashioning golems out of personal mulch. She won’t see friends unless they’re of her own making. Leave her be. Let her face kiss the sidewalk. Cold, bent. Moving parts.
Down-tuned guitar in a darkened room. Sticky floor, dripping ceiling. Stupid girl. Beer mat over drink, escape through the broken window and never return. On the beach with a dream catcher, watching the tide roll in. Salt abound. Keeps the ghosts away.
The hospital patient is wrapped in bandages. He moves slow, stiff, laboured. Mort says it’s for his own good and that he likes the attention. Brings back the socio-spiritual defences. Does it? Or have you succumbed to the virus too?
They police your reading by making you afraid. I am science fiction memoir tinged with mysticism. Just a bunch of words in [whatever] order. Turning away from the mainstream, the ‘bring it to market’ and the goddam DISCOURSE.
TV for a head.
The wheels start without me. I may have a motor, but that’s not what drives me forward. That’s just there to make me feel like I’m in control. Motion [consciousness] is perpetual however we try to resist.
Though Parallels has begun, Journal Sequences continue. Perhaps they always will.
Try something out. Look for patterns, rhythms, connections on journaling an beauty in fragments. Look for the point at which communication breaks down between writer and reader, where intrigue fails and where the key to subjectivity may lie. Free myself up. Join personal beats with character perspectives and notes for plot. Play with the boundaries between fiction and reality. Look for the line to ride.
The I will eat itself.
The image in the header is my own.
C.R. Dudley 