I’m falling anyway. Back to the ground. Face the sky, clouds cover the sun [sin]. Black buildings morph into wobbly paint streaks. Obscure.
Empty space.
The reappearance of the weaver. Old scents, new memories.
The feel of my brush against the canvas, my pen upon the page, steadily [frantically] creating a new reality before I hit the ground. Hit the bottle, reflective fragments.
Feel like I should be more purposeful. Everyone likes the look of a person who knows what they are doing. I drift into a range of intensities. Accidental strokes. Multiplicities. Multiple cities. I am the definition of unfocused but somehow effective.
The pattern of the chaotic wave
Weaves rhythm in the end
Making the journal public: what an idea. Disarm the trauma. A selfish act you do not have to participate in. Back away if you want; I do not give a single fuck. I’m clean, I’m flying, I’m away.
Give the words room to breathe. Lines, spaces, indents. Letters expanding and contracting on the page, taking on a life of their own.
I hold inside me the idea of a person. I’ve been witness to one in every moment, seen every action. But I still don’t know how to reconcile this thing I feel with the experience of being a person. How do these pieces connect? I walk among them yet I am not one of them. At least, I have no way of telling whether I am or not. Do they feel this too? Is dissonance being a person? Is having the idea of a person being a person?
It’s difficult to maintain focus on somebody else’s stream for long periods. Starts to make you feel like you’ve become someone else. Fear sets in that you are lost. You look for cues of shared reality beyond subjectivity and metaphor, those images of something solid to hold onto. Grounding in a scene.
But you can only pull the rug from beneath a reader so many times. They need somewhere to hang their hats.
Hints of subjectivity like jotting in journals are conversely quite inviting. Perhaps because there’s space to project your own patterns and assumptions upon them. Overlay. It becomes an almost interactive experience, where you are as big a part of the narrative as the diary keeper. Most poetry would fit into this category, I think. Rich but uncontroling language. Loose hooks. Speaks to the emotions, the intuition, not the intellect.
Cig on the beach. Lie flat on my back. Look at the clouds.
Parade of masks. Papier-mâché devil faces and brightly coloured ribbons.
More than images, more than words, I am vibes. Tied up with wire. Still baking. Tearing friends from paper.
You can literally do whatever you want.
Though Parallels has begun, Journal Sequences continue. Perhaps they always will.
Try something out. Look for patterns, rhythms, connections in journaling and 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 around with the boundaries between fiction and reality. Look for the line to ride.
The I will eat itself.
Header Image Credit: Stefano Ciociola via Unsplash.
C.R. Dudley 