thrum, gingerly

words that seem only to appear in written narrative.

every time I read them I think “hmmm, really?”

sometimes they end up seeming fine.

still, I will never pen anything.

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tweet?

I was just remembering high school, anticipating going there and getting to smell “Opium” wafting down the halls. Had an impulse to google it, as if that would produce the smell again.

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joke “joke”

joke I made up in rome:

“I think I found a body!”

“Call an archeologist!”

another “joke” from my sound files from 2012:

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it is hard to write here, because of the weather. writing at yaddo in the summer was hard but I felt fancy and everyone’s making each other feel fancy all day so maybe that make up for it. though almost everything I wrote then has been cut or buried. I just left myself instructions for tomorrow. my brain feels so fuzzed out. I am not used to waking up squirmy with bug bites, that slightly puffed feeling in my inner ear and throat, the histimine flavor or whatever it is. I remember longing to be nocturnal. I could check with spouse see if she’s up for it with me.  maybe we can try it for the month of august. wake up, take the dog out, fix dinner, watch the sunset somewhere nice, get to work. too bad she’s always doing stuff on the phone. go to bed as it’s getting misty.

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ending

people I think know better than me about writing novels tell me to write forward and go back later. I keep thinking I haven’t done that, that the first time I landed on an end it was so weak and provisional that even though it felt like it counted it didn’t read like it counted so it didn’t count.

But I think this is just how I’ve gotta keep writing this book. I can get a little more fully forward each time thru, and I think I am now at the point when I can take a series of moments out of their context and work on them as thru-lines and sequences and that will push it forward a little more, and then go back and redo the big chapter sections I learn that way how to revise, and I still have to be in stalk-mode about the real ending.  I’ve done so much collage-work and note-taking and false-scene-writing that I think I just have to wait it out and keep working meanwhile on the things I can work on.

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what i’m doing

sorting piles.  this entire book is being collaged and you take collage and add it to my obsession with order and you get the most inefficient method of writing a novel ever invented.

I’ve sometimes wondered, when someone says the one about authors who spend eight hours in their rooms to come up with one sentence— I’ve imagined people imagining the authors just pacing all day— jotting something down and then scratching it out — hour after hour— is that really what some people do in their studies? For me it’s some days write a bunch of stuff that all gets cut — maybe six months later it gets cut— except maybe that one line that stays. Or it’s hours of moving notes around in relation to each other before finding some combo that makes me think of the sentence that then ends up in the book. Or writing about things in the book, wondering to myself in writing what I’m writing about or what people might do later in the book and eventually I think of a line that actually goes in the book.

a note about narrating this protag. that I don’t have a place for in my own hundred files: She doesn’t notice the specificity of landscape/place—she is myopic – sees only interiors – after the hospital anyhow—how do I find and execute MY form of certainty? If I let myself have a first person undrmatized narrator even from ch 1 I can set up for later moves… defining myself via deficits… confessions as a third person narrator. I have to care a lot in my very specific way. But not be explainy…so many things I don’t know. So many simple facts I forget. Simple math that stumps me. Seeing the birth and death of that guy and not registering his age, moment in historical time not registering skipping names and dates when I read. Never imagining the pronounciation of names I don’t know just taking it in visually as letter shapes. This is your narrator. Still can show some things. As if intuitively, getting to the same place others get with all their good info and training. Politics that comes from some sense of what’s right. My vs D’s interpretation tactics when we visited the coral castle for example. She sees him in context of Lavia—and his his age—the cold dark place vs florida, the post ww2, I just see the psychological shape of him in the architectural exoskelton. How is the mother in the book like this and not—she’s on the edge. —these are not unlike serial killer narratives of expression. Self-espression, self etc. I don’t know how to accept, justify, understand, or undermine my fear. It is there, I just try to banish it ad this is what happens. I don’t see the fear. I see it as eradication of personality.

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breadcrumbs

I’m in the first coffeeshop I’ve felt at home in since college.  I like the music, I like the layout, it has the right # of people doing the right things, it has girl-queers and punks and people with missing limbs and an array of tattoo styles, food that is not 100% carb, a quiet room, and wifi.  I can also walk to it easily.  The A/C is both necessary and not too much.

And thank goodness I left myself a trail of breadcrumbs in form of voicememos to get back to my book. I was so scared, so much time away.

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being part of

getting ready/bracing myself for/ trying not to brace for big shift that I want very much that I fantasize will be about reclaiming old dear innocent parts of myself that do not want to be part of a current cultural conversation at all except by accident, the person who feels fine about not really being that interested except occasionally in the lives of writers and definitely not in relation to what they wrote that likes a book out of context that knows that readings are always incomplete and that’s not a problem it’s a fact that doesn’t have any desire to exhaust anything b/c that is a form of death, of meanness of winning. what else.  so reading books in a way that helps me write that helps me think the next thing. so writing in the totally imaginary space of these collected reading and lived experiences, writing in relation to those things as they inhabit my head but articulating with such determination and clarity that a stick-person could walk up to my thing as to a rock on the moon and see that it’s a rock on the moon?

 

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another oldness

the result of my pomo ’90s too much information terror has resulted in the internet equaling 2 sites: google and facebook, so that the only 2 choices are unfathomable and claustrophobic but not claustrophobic like the child you keep in a cabinet but like current air travel where all you get is the way people smell and take up space use gas and fall for advertising. do i think that the young people go with the flow? but what flow, whose flow, what meaning of flow?

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oldness

I don’t like any brands showing on my clothes.

I can’t believe that swimsuits and sports bras or any bras arrive with padding in them as if that’s not totally cheating and fake and if the point is to make people want to have sex with you what happens when, you know, no clothes? I guess they are just lost in passion not busy trying to crack the magic trick.  Oh, maybe the new generation just appreciates magic and artifice for what it is.  I do appreciate costume. I do think we would be a better culture if we all wore costumes more often not just the people in parades.

Not to mention technology, how I just want to learn it once. And I am still a little afraid that if I don’t have a song I like in my $ paws it is lost to me. It’s because I don’t trust (and cannot wield) search engines. It’s the way I never was a real library user, afraid to go in there very often because of the too much information of generation x and the delillo I love, not going with the flow, not trusting the universe to provide anything necessarily, there goes that song into the midst/mists of time.

alas, more and more to come.

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