Why not oppose the institution of writing?
Published by Aeroflot in the blog Surreal Parisian Black Boxx Conglomeration No. 143. Views: 128
I don't know what this is. I just woke up and started writing.
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Written on the fly:
What does it mean to write a story? Here I am trying to come up with one without a single idea to go upon. This is ridiculous.
I could say once there was a man who was walking down a path through a forest littered with tiny flowers at his feet, and the sun pierced this forest and shone on the flowers, but as the trees huddled closer, the little trickled away into nothingness. Then he was lost in perplexity, in the basement of his mind for which the forest was being used as a metaphor. The man fell into the rabbit hole in the center of the wooded realm, falling and falling, into an endless black voided mass. There was nothing to grab to slow his fall, not a branch, not a twig, not an adventurous root. This was surely the end of this poor man's life: an endless perplexity, confusion, disembowelment of the innards of his thought-clouted mind. He might as well jump off! Jump off the fifth story somewhere and splatter over the pavement. Then at least the fall would end. When man falls enough, he wants no one to catch his fall, not a god nor an angel to keep him safe—he wishes to search for himself the crazed dimensions of the mind that was given to him. If dying is the end, then dying it is, but death is not glorious when one takes it oneself. A man drops dead without a scratch: what is one to say about that? Suicide for despair? Suicide from lack of despair? There will be no funeral for this man; by the time he dies from his condition, all form of man has been filtered from his life—it is the way it has always been.
Just do! Just write! For whom it is I don't know. For what reason is the rabbit hole: neither sad nor happy, tiresome nor easy, despised nor cherished. It is what it is.
What am I to do with all these stories inside my head? A book here, a short story there. It's a buffet and I should be happy that ideas are flowing—it's a creative time. But creativity will not move on its own; I have to push it along, jump start the creative car with my hands as cables. My hands, they reach out, stretched out, grasping for an object in the void above me. Greedy hands? Perhaps they want more than they can carry. It's okay: many people are like that at a point in their lives. It's natural to desire. The hands of desire, he-he. Hold on to your desires! Grasp them firmly and don't let go, for they are the muse for your life, the firmament and the heavens, the alpha and the omega—everything that is possible to be thought.
Now lets write a story about that and use an animal or a fictitious monster as a metaphor.
He slides around on the ooze that he forms from his bottom. His arms are elongated and bony, and always outstretched toward the sky, trying to snatch his desire that has left him. He believes his desires are stuck on the ceiling, like a spider crawling upside down. His body is a lump, without the creative form of a human or animal—only eyes and arms. Arms to grab what he sees; eyes to see only what he wants. Of course he'll never find what he wants and only grab every object that he thought might help him, and keep each object with him until the end of days, when a huge lumbering pile of trash it will be. By the way of fate, he will never understand that no one ends their search with an object. Not a woman, nor a car, not a house, or a kid. What he wants he can grasp; what he needs he can't touch. In that way, what he wants is floating up in the air, for that is how futile it is to grasp.
Writing for the sake of writing is not possible. Humans are motivated by greed—not exactly greed—but by inherent conceitedness that comes with the combo package we call humanity. Call it writing for emotional release or for fun, but however much the mind tries to disguise it, the motivation always comes back to you.
Today my monster is learning to write. He thinks his first novel will become famous—an instant hit! Don't mind the lecture all writers receive about not counting on fame and fortune, he will achieve his goal, because he is cunning and sees from an angle that will take the literary world by complete surprise: a second Beatlemania. His ideas will purge the minds of his readers and replace them with him.
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The children's room of the library was quiet, except for the rumbling of the air filtration system in the ceiling exactly above me. Most people had already left. Many of them were girls scared of being assaulted after reading the pamphlets pinned to the bulletin board advising students to proceed with caution to the parking lot after dark.
My cellphone told me 10:00pm. In my hands was a paperback version of Norwegian Wood, one of the most popular novels in Japan, selling more than two million copies. The book itself was fine until I got to the part when a thirteen-year-old half-raped a thirty-one-year-old. Not the best passage in a book to be reading when you're hiding way back in the children's section. Any second one of my friends could sneak in, under the protection of the noisy fan above me, and read over my shoulder and scream pedophile. Quick way to end a friendship.
The chapters were getting long, and I flipped ahead aways to find the end of this long chapter, but it went on another twenty pages. It was at a slow point, so I dropped the bookmark inside and put the book down on the table. I leaned back on the chair and gazed out the door, through the infinite rows of perfectly-aligned shelving, to the far wall at the other side of the library. Nobody was walking through the stacks.
I should have thrown my hoodie in my backpack, I thought to myself, armed folded over, hands rubbing my upper arms for warmth. The filtration rumbling disquieted the room. If I wasn't immune to constant noise then it might bother me. I always slept easier when the air conditioning unit outside made a ruckus.
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If you understand any of that, let me know.
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