[Woke up after a very strange evening yesterday and I needed to write. Sat down, typed without thinking. No filter, no edits. And yes, I seem to have worked myself up into a frenzy. Again.
Alright, I will go and put my brain on ice now, wear it the right way and come back later.]
‘I don’t want to fucking calm down!’
Actually, that’s a lie.
I am calm. In this moment, I am extraordinarily calm. Calm as an assassin before a crucial hit. Adrenaline pumps blood through my veins like a war drum; loud but steady.
I may have failed in many things, but my hands are steady. Look, no trembling – see? Look, no hands! Risk under supervision – is that a risk at all?
Vision? Clear. Eyes? Unblinking. Heart? Cold. Mind? Empty. I know what I have to do. Precision is all. Precision of a neurosurgeon.
There’s no thinking here, just doing. Isn’t this what you want? What you wanted? The ‘real’ me? Well… surprise! You ain’t getting any help this time, sunshine.
Be careful what you wish for.
On four or five hours sleep. Most would crawl back to bed, I’m up and about, functioning at optimum capacity in the silence and darkness. I’ve begun to think I should just do away with sleep altogether. But alas, it is one of the things I need. Medicated, mediated reality needs sleep to function properly.
I come from that place ideas go to die. Spouting fury, philosophy, death. A mantra. A virus. Language is a virus – that’s Burroughs for you. He shot his wife, didn’t he? Oh no, this isn’t a work of fiction, my dear. A work of art, perhaps.
Morning pages, pages in the morning aren’t supposed to be like this. No. Nothing’s supposed to be like this. Pages, stages, cages. Poet’s rhyming words – not angry words. Chant rhyming words. Rhyming words will keep you safe. Rhyming words will keep her safe. Safe from me.
Repeat after me: rhyming words… rhyming words are fighting words.
A prayer? Oh you want me to pray? For my soul? Not in this world. In this world, you have to have a soul to pray. Only animals and plants don’t have souls. Well, that rules out most of the planet, then. Go back to your rhyming words; words, birds, curds.
Does word rhyme with dirge? The most important question of the day.
Write, write, write. Do or die. Kill a character, kill a man. Google search how to-? Internet fury. Cyber wrath. Oh, they’re just words; they don’t matter. Squiggles on a page. Can’t possibly mean anything. Can’t possibly… can’t possibly kill.
‘You’re just saying that to make me feel better.’
No, I’m not. Trust me. If I wanted to make you feel better, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, darling. Our paths would never have crossed. It might have been best they hadn’t.
If everything matters, then nothing matters. Nothing else matters. What else matters but the words? After all is said and done, what is left but the words? What inheritance have I received but words, words, words, and even more words? Words almighty.
I come from the place ideas go to die.
Some call it Hell.
I call it home.