INANIMATE – The Point of this Fiasco

SO, I wanted to start this blog because the only consistent vein running through my sordid and figuratively nomadic life is my desire to write (and of course the never ending need for attention and subsequent irritation with the attention I had irrationally longed for, maybe that too).

I want to tell stories, big stories with complex twists and dichotomous characters whose tumultuous gray blood drives them to both the very good and the very wicked. Perhaps it was the ditty my mother would repeat ad nauseum, with a snicker, when describing me – “when she was good, she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid“. On the basis of course, that every thing living circles within a positive and negative (and I tend to think everything is living, maybe not breathing, but living, decomposing / morphing.. blah blah change ). Some days we’re positive, taking time out for the telemarketer and the malevolent beggar and, frankly, some days you kick the kitten, just because.

I ALSO want to tell TINY STORIES. Stories that are finished just as they’ve begun, like some thoughts, like some relationships, like some lives. Beth Wexler, a name you will soon read about in art rags; has a book about song writing. She pointed out an interesting exercise to me when I was ranting about my thorny relationship with creativity. It was very simple:

Wake up, look around, pick an object and write a story about it.

HOLY F-N SHIT – soooooo strange what a rug, a discarded dog toy, plastic lilies and a screen printed deep sea diver will tell you. Their lives are incredible. Their stories, both traumatic and endearing, sad and enlightening. I wanted this to become habit. But habits are slimy little twats when you want them, of course when they are unwanted they behave as buggering bastards who clamp themselves to your behind like bulbous barnacles and make every squat a dance maneuver.

This is where you, the beloved, the adored, the longed for reader come in. For what other reason would we write? I mean, there is that old detail about purpose and the fact that if I don’t write I often think bridges are nice places to take afternoon swims from, but to what REAL purpose is there, if not You?

I will say this now, for the first time ever, laying it out for the universe, some melanoma patients and a garbage collector or two…. I want more than anything to be read…… and I may have the hook.
I do not know whether I will be skilled enough to keep the catch. This will come down to talent and my general ability to stand on my head and balance a Vietnamese baby on my left foot.

So here is the barbed and rusted twist of metal dangling from my line:


You as the beginning of the story, not the end. It will be your story of course, all written words are the readers story. Else they would be merely pixels, dull little, depthless b&w pixels, no grays, no delicious inbetweens. I cannot promise the writing brilliant, I have been out of practice. I have been working on screenplays who are of a different sort, they are owned by a different audience, where, if not made into films, die the same death as the unread word. Not even a reader can keep the screenplay alive.

RAMBLING – Just to Write, to practice, so that I can get back to readable

Ok, so my writing is a bit tawdry…I’m going to improve, bear with me. My face has been leaking for an entire summer and the culprit for all of these tears, the same culprit who always brings tears, change, evolution or de-evolution, propulsion, adjustment. And as painful as some changes may be they do feed my general disposition – I hate to be still. I once had a boyfriend who would grab me by the shoulders and hold me in place, but all that did was internalize the frenzy. It is not the frenzy of thoughts, the way meditation seeks a quiet channel, it is the frenzy of restless. The kinetic eternal wind tunnel of
moving atoms, both crashing about just under my skin, deep into my tissue and orbiting my body inches away.

If I were to stand still for too long, I would probably spark. And it could be a problem, randomly catching a curtain aflame, this is why traffic jams are so dangerous. Although television seems to solve the dilemma, zombifying me into a pleasant drool. Perhaps the restless is what makes me appreciate life the way I do. Appreciate that there are depths I will never know but continue to swim towards. It is this energy that keeps me from the bends, from turning around to swim back up, to sedentary, to listless. I know these words are negative, I could have used calm or serene, but that is not what I feel in those places.

And I have been dreaming. My dreams grow out of the ground like magic vines, their skin breaking apart and dropping apartment buildings and skyscrapers, mountains and abandoned houses like tiny seeds that stick into the crumbled earth below and begin to generate offspring themselves. Above this lies a grid where a game will sit, there is always a game in the dreams, as in life. And it is not the type of game you play as if at a console in an arcade in a dated place in a summer lake town, with quarters.. quarters. The past sometimes has more life than the present. In the past colors seem brighter, smells are more potent.

The dreams have games that take tidbits of my day / week / life and place them together, creating more nonsense than already exists, socks, swimming, shotguns and mescalin, murderous hooved men and hippies, frightening little girls who offer you poisoned sweets and severed fingers. I wake up in the morning, look around and dive back inside. I close my eyes and break apart, sometimes a participant, others a moviegoer. I was asked yesterday, what I wanted. My answer… adventure. She asked if I had that in Philadelphia, I said, yes, I’m there. It wasn’t snotty, it was simple, It’s the way I dream. Some people play video games, some people do drugs, drive fast, walk through gettos late at night, skydive. It seems all I have to do is go back to sleep, think about dreaming and fall. Life is very much like that. You just have to show up, think about it and fall. I mean, we’re all destined to hit the ground hard and permanently at some point anyway. So why not throw yourself off the cliff and out of the window… practice.

And as for this writing thing, sorry if you showed up here for wisdom or entertainment, but I’m unable to provide either at the moment. I’ll keep diving down though… eventually I’ll catch something with jagged teeth that glows bright enough.