Read a book. Make tea. Tell me something. What do you want to hear? The sounds of wet, loving, foreign tongues. A cold rain. A forest. A bed of poison ivy. A secret patch of mushrooms that "broadcast on transcendental frequencies"- Robbins. A body of work, tatooed, stamped, branded, owned, sold, thrown away and picked up again.
"This is terrible," she said, looking up from the sheet of crumpled notebook paper, over her glasses.
"I know," I replied. "But sometimes I just find myself in a liminal space, like maybe I could burst out in every direction at once, except that I can't escape the stasis. Or maybe I'm nowhere."
"Well, see, that's just garbage. Introspective sloth. You're just too lazy to really ask yourself the hard questions and figure out why you feel the way that you do. That's why all you can do is spout twisted half-clichés and nonsense. What you've got to understand is that it's not enough to be authentic. It's not even enough to be honest. And they're not the same thing. No, the important thing is to be rigorous. To understand, or at least to come as close as possible. Or maybe to understand why you can't understand. But this visceral shit don't fly no more."
"I think I understand what you mean. You've got to have ideas, reasons. Otherwise, it's easy. And no one wants easy. But what if my ideas are so obscure that even I can't untangle them?"
"Then you don't really have any ideas."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment