Wednesday, 22 September 2010


I haven't done any writing for some time, I said to him, I'm really worried, I haven't done any writing for ages, I said to her. I kept saying it as though a mental marker to myself, something I hoped would trigger off a train of brain thought that would tip the idea into a good vat of action. I had that thing a few years ago, where I would begin to say ideas and plans out loud, and believing it was the place where they first bed down, take root, make sense, exist.

It seemed to correlate with the time I'd spent on him the past month, see, I've been missing for a month, and yes there's been festivals and train journeys and sunny outings and locality explorings, shows and eats and films and a fucking lot of walking actually, but mostly, it was time spent with a boy. Not volume of time, but mentality. Remember that weird bit between 2004 and 2008 where I didn't really do anything? Rememember I stopped talking to myself, stopping the jottings, diaries, collectings, pastings, paintings. Ideas? And remember thinking this was an 'odd thing' but this must be a 'good thing', what a relationship is for in essence, to be able to stop the talking to oneself like a mentalist and say these things out loud?

Well I believe I have a problem. If I can only put my creativity (there must be a better word but I like how shit this one is, as shit as that talk, which if I can get a sentence out of for 8quid, maybe it was worth it) ... into one direction at a time, outward or inward, well I'm just setting myself up for implosion. I'm attempting a vacuum either way that is boundlessly fruitless, frustration-definite and self destroying.

Or more plainly, it might just be the meet a new boy tell him your surname he Googles you and is watching thing. Suddenly instant self-publishing feels violating and a bizarre self-censorship ensues, where you can't think him into the present as it's too close, he'll end up in words and you'll both be waiting to read them. Best not post for a while then. I hate that. We were talking last night about the instantaneous nature of a blog, the power, the frailty. We were talking on Saturday about the left/right hand fact/fiction thing. We were talking Monday about the melting of catharsis into creation. Again there must be a better word but I'm sorry.

Or maybe all of these times I was saying out loud what I should be saying to the page. I sat down half an hour ago, for it takes 30 minutes to write one of these bites, and my arms were full of that thing they learned May Oh Eight. Full of what, words, ideas, repression, stress, blood, electricity, the Sage? Whatever it is, it dripped onto the keys, tapped from a brain place, slight but different to the pen, a mix of catharsis and creation. I'm wanting to evolve, the truth depends on the melange and I can only trust in the unknown. This is just wordy words for 'get on with shit'.

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