by practicalspactical

These questions — these pretenses — these trying to be authentic, trying not to be a phony — this embarassing earnestness — what Kerouac talks about on the first few pages of The Subterraneans, when he talks about how he is hot, fumbling, lame, and nervous to the cool hipness of the hipcats he’s hanging with — this self-concious namedropping of authors where I use their last name — “you know, Kerouac” — pretentious pretentions as useful foils — elevated diction — words i’ve heard the elegant people say — do I deny it — do I pursue the scatalogical roughness — the dim prebiographical memory of potty-training in the kitchen of my childhood house, getting shit on me, and my mother maybe hitting me — “don’t talk about that, not in pleasant company” — or the endless trying masturbation — or the attempt to literize even that (literize, v. tr., 1) to make literary; 2) to make literal) — these Celine like dashes — there I go again — that’s ok, these are thought-droppings, there is no censorship here, no editor, just one word at a time — preparing for an interview — why I want to be a lawyer — I like things — I like expensive scotch and I need a new wardrobe and I want to sit home all day — what now what next what then — how do I prepare for the unpreparable — how long will I let this Anxiety dictate my thoughts and play as my muse? What is this? Am I writing again? Writing what? It goes nowhere – neither fiction nor nonfiction — every once in awhile I realize this output counts for shit and I go smoke a cigarette (rarely, I quit, now I’m just a ghost of myself) or describe what my shithole room looks like (Raskolnivkosky) What is this!!!???? Freud! Anziety ANZUS, remainder, two paths for the novel, what’s the different between madness, prophecy, and art? Am I pushing myself to these extremes, trying to break out of a chrsyalis before my wings wither away to gossamer and I’m trapped forever in the dusty undercanopy? Ferngully, the Last Rain Forest, sings, and Give Elmo A Break, Please — and and and and and and and and Winston Churchill baby — and who sings for the lonely and how literary do you want it and what quotes will you put on your yearbook page — boats against the current, or a word from Mr. Nixon about the special providence of special moments or maybe sweet earnest sentimental Adam Duritz who wants to be Bob Dylan and believes that maybe this year will be better than the last — you know once I took a train back from New York City after two years, no it was after New Years, New Years 2006, strange fake fictional science fictional date — all these dates are inherently unreal I will never believe it is real again — the strange feeling of waking up and thinking that Barack Obama is President-Elect, Soontobe, Soontobe, I gave him money first, in early early 2007, it also seems so strange, we’re moving faster now, we are, we’re moving faster now, we are, what is this art this strange art this some strange art I was telling a story I was telling a story about a train ride I was telling a story about a train ride back from New Years in 2006, on the first day of 2006, never to be seen again, boo hoo, like my uncle, like my grandfather, all the people I use to know are illusions … I was telling a story about a train ride — a girl sitting next to me, talking to an older gentleman, being very friendly and attractive and loving of the world and had I swallowed some pixie dust the night before, possibly, possibly, lost opportunity, a girl I was meant to see but didn’t (think maybe I didn’t, she was in Hoboken that night), anyway this one, different girl, says to the man across from her, she says “this is going to be the best year ever,” and it was, couple months later I lost my virginity (that’s right, how old do you think I am, how old do you think I was, actually, it was a very frightening experience at first but frankly I learned to like it alot the wonderful feeling of closeness), it was the best year ever, or maybe what she said was “this is going to be the best year yet” and that was true too, evne though I’d done many funfun things to get me to that place, to that train ride — now I’m here, living in New York City, and I won’t even go outside so I’m going to go outside and smoke a cigarette, won’t like it, just to remember what it was like, sure, and to feel with the smoke the inside of lungs and then I’ll come back and put myself to sleep and that will be the end of this day which was unproductive and cold and gray and sad and I spent it mostly indoors which saddens me too and I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it but I know I’m going to do something it’s going to start with this cigarette I’m going to go outside smoke the cigarette, think about the poisons contained within and think about my uncle (just my uncle, no need to complicate these things) and then I’ll come back in and distract myself with some form of television or another;

ground control to space control over and out roger roger