ON HOW I CAN’T WRITE A NOVEL
I knew I should write. I needed so even when I could not speak, my hands were eager to tell someone something. Anything. When I could barely have a word it should better be told by hand. And I’ve been perhaps the only audience I will ever have.
There’s a voice over my will. An uncertain passion has driven me to my inner adventure. I could have made anything of myself. But as there is a turn point in everyone’s life mine was killing. I abandoned the ambition of the best to strive on making something beautiful out the worst.
ILLNESS
If you are not wounded, you are mediocre. Pain and desperation make art effortless. I should not say it, but it worth the risk on taking shortcuts to get there.
For the sake of honesty, I cannot turn this into something serious because I am working. After 5 years out of the musky desk, I finally landed a job. Does it make me happy? I love to have a job if it allows me to do what I’m doing. One of my former co-workers was a horrendous vision of my childhood prince charm. Grotesque. Just as bumping on a full body cheesy version of a stuffed animal among a stampede of perfect, round, shiny, bouncing exposed buttocks in a carnival.
Someone gave me my first diary for my birthday I guess, probably when attending 3rd grade. It felt so special having a book with hard covers, pink lined pages, a key and all. I wrote pretty much about everything that matters at that age: boys, family, and my first poems. I still write about it and they’re still just attempts though. I discovered on the crossroad of the pen and paper that with the end of each diary a love story would also die like an anxious course.
I was terrified and ended the habit of keeping a diary when I felt in love with my husband. So I started a journal on several notebooks. I wrote around my school binders, recycled paper, napkins, word processors, you name it. As if fate could be cheated with my silly doing.
Not an easy thing to play games with the devil, but despise of the scratches we are still together. Funny fact we met while writing. And stick together writing.
As I remember those former diaries I sense a discouraging hive climbing up my neck. One day my mother slapped me with sounded insults after she read and misinterpreted what I wrote during my teenage years. Hardly a living nightmare if compared with the way things actually happened.
What surprises me most is that I am writing in English. I find it relieving far away from the chains of my mother’s language. It flows better in English, as an alter ego that does not need the bias and censorship of the past. When I seriously considered writing fiction I realized that after all, those attempts could be included between realities. Just as those oneiric ideas that blossom spontaneously and have to be chased like bubbles around the spasm of an ethereal field.
JEALOUS, UNATTRACTIVE, AND UNBELIEVABLY HORNY
It is disappointing not having a forbidden pen pal these days. The one I used to have is mute by choice. It is even sadder considering the fact that I was the one reaching up to him enabling a codependency that owned me. Still I found him irresistible. The combination between fogging desire and absence wired me to an irrational hunger. He disposed me so many times. He abused me long story short, even when we had nothing but emails and pauses. Then again he inspired my most productive years for a long time. An evil time naive as a bunch of angels eating cotton candy on the verge of lent.
That urge celebrates the numbness of knowing we will never be together.
NARCISSUS AND THE FROGS
If a frog would kiss my hand the promise of unstoppable beauty and rekindle a self-driven passion at every blink, every chance through the mirror; would be less than collateral.
No blame. A kind liberation would arise with the certainty of being the most exquisite creature around, and devoting one’s life to self-tribute and contemplation. Shamefully my reflection disagrees on such a humble hesitation. It's gaze is merciless, bleak. Pacts with supreme forces are insufficient to satisfy those thorough and humiliating remarks.
A harem of frogs would incessantly love an ungrateful body, captive in a slavery of adoration, biting with a voluptuous fluid of youth and velvet till the last breath, the last song.
Still I will remain a monster, a repulsive self-indulgent frog that will never, ever have the chance of become the flower made of flesh with cold crimson ink leaking though the nails.
LATCH, LEASH, LEISURE
All the times I’ve begged God to make some kind of justice up or to the Devil lowering his malignant powers to punish the deceivers is finally making progress. I could not find inside of me any feeling of sympathy, compassion, or even any kind of feeling, but an indifferent glance with some kind of peace of mind, just like the
I told you so, or
you deserve it, plain simple. Should that be enough to set me free? That question is now a chain I don’t care about thus I’m embracing one whose delight I’m prepared to suffer.
RUN, FLAWLESS
I’m starting to hate this book. To be honest I randomly titled the chapters and left a couple of them blank. After many proof reads under many states of mind, I have nothing else to say. I am running flawless as if it never happened. Be my guest and write the last chapter if you want. For the record, the title is also
the end. THAT IS HOW I LIKE MA' MAN, FUCKED UP AND MINE
