Christopher Locke has written a bloody book, you fools, go over to Mystic Bourgeoisie and read the damn thing while you still can for free.
There isn’t a goddamn thing we disagree upon, just, the man is a better writer than me. I?
See?
Able to turn himself to serious thought, even as my left brain trickles away … and the right hasn’t much to say this week, either. Well, in RL it has plenty, but they are not happy things, and above all, we strive here to entertain. You know, you can psychoanalyze anyone by their relationship to writing. To their blog. To their work—alright, by their relationship to anything. Because—especially as regards the voluntary, which is how most of us write and/or blog—there is no there there. And I don’t mean Oakland, honey.
I mean that when the object is invisible, invented, why, one’s dance to and from its, shall we say, presence is precisely the dance one invented as a child. As an infant, no doubt, that helpless time about which no one likes to think. And yet. And yet. Where else do you think your dreadful attitudes were born, to coin a term? Should your surroundings have been love and other healthy things, I would imagine your dance to be graceful and effective. Unlike, for example, this writer, who spends, still, her primary energy trying to not fall over her own feet.
Which trip me up something awful, and there go my smarts, and there goes my passion. It’s either an illness or the deepest form of rest, so deep one wonders, Is this dying? And time points out, Not yet. On the other hand, I don’t exactly feature myself bursting forth with some great blossoming as does an old tree, bearing that one last magnificent fruit. No, the passion that got those enormous paintings painted was all Saving Myself. Purifying myself, if you want to to know. Which I didn’t. Know. Until the last breath of it was nearly gone. Flinging myself up against the beauty of the canvas, ugliness transforming itself again and again into great staggering beauty—really in your face beauty—so that the painter surrendered. Alright! I believe! I believe there is beauty ‘neath all this personal noxiousness (mind you, this is all old hat) and then … and then … everything stopped. I also became a writer of astonishing talent, inasmuch there were—there are—phrases, sentences, that flew out of the ether into my mind and out those little fingertips. I certainly didn’t make them up, and rather than think this some false modesty, something disingenuous, I would have you consider that I mean everything I say.
A post which offers only this for closure: Some people are just lucky, I guess.
[...] than our own meager talents allow. And we follow that thread for a while until Zo reminds us of The Better Man and that Chris Locke is and has been obsessively writing what threatens to become a book. But [...]