| Monday, April 11, 2005 |
| Stop It! [Why I write] |
Being as this is my first foray into the popular and perfunctory world of
blogging, I am forced to assume that in this writing I will find absolute
privacy and therefore freedom.
I am a writer and reasonable person, and as such I have a handle on the
value of each stroke beneath my finger when aimed purposefully. I
would also not delude myself into thinking that I could do my best work
in this masturbatory forum. I write for others to read, in an attempt to
communicate. I try to intellectualize my thought process in a manner that
some faceless, and unknown “other” might find entertaining. I do not
write for myself, except in that it arouses me to think that I can transmit
an idea into the mind of another.
I used to take walks in Brooklyn every Wednesday, for
reasons that are at the same time complex and pointless
enough to gloss over. I would walk with my good friend
Amy Ferrara. On the occasion of one Wednesday,
we decided to stop off at the liquor store and we
each bought a fifth of Mecherschmidt’s Vodka
in a plastic bottle. We found a burned-out sofa
along the East River. We sat and chatted in the
light of the Manhattan skyline. The skyline was 180
degrees wide from where we sat, and 20 feet tall. The
panorama ended on the far left with fangs since extracted.
At a certain point, we produced bottles, opened them, and took a long
draught. I watched her face while we swallowed. We were sharing an
experience. All context was removed. I was tasting and feeling the exact
thing that she was.Whatever else the German’s might be, the strides they
have made in modern culture, and in manufacturing, I think it would be fair
to assume they will not be remembered for their vodka.That is the reason
that I write, so I can portray an event so effectively and thoroughly, that the
“other” will feel as though they have been through it with me.I try to
establish the rules for interaction. I use narrative tools to define a space
where thinking happens, this place is outside of my head, and outside the
head of the “other”. Once the standard is set, and the wheels are put into
motion, the story could be written as easily by the reader as me. There is a
third mind, existing between us, and that is where the story is
told.
That is why I write, and why I do not blog. My pursuit of this
connection is tireless, and deserves the attention of the
parties endeavoring to attain it. I cannot compete with pop-ups, or the dog,
or television.
I use language in the hope of someday being able to define beauty as I see
it. Not just the thought, but the thought process. I want to be able to
express myself well enough to explain the world-changing rush I felt one
night. The tunnel vision, the loss of balance, the unadulterated thrill of
stepping over the threshold from pre to post. Just moments after entering
the nightclub bathroom, I had a goal. I wanted to be a writer. Someday I
hope to be the writer that can describe the thrill of possibility, the life not
attempted, and timelines not explored, a life’s new tack. I want to be the
writer who can emote with such power and clarity to be able to fully
describe the experience of seeing three words scrawled across a cartoon
porn star’s ass.
“She don’t care”
blogging, I am forced to assume that in this writing I will find absolute
privacy and therefore freedom.
I am a writer and reasonable person, and as such I have a handle on the
value of each stroke beneath my finger when aimed purposefully. I
would also not delude myself into thinking that I could do my best work
in this masturbatory forum. I write for others to read, in an attempt to
communicate. I try to intellectualize my thought process in a manner that
some faceless, and unknown “other” might find entertaining. I do not
write for myself, except in that it arouses me to think that I can transmit
an idea into the mind of another.
I used to take walks in Brooklyn every Wednesday, for
reasons that are at the same time complex and pointless
enough to gloss over. I would walk with my good friend
Amy Ferrara. On the occasion of one Wednesday,
we decided to stop off at the liquor store and we
each bought a fifth of Mecherschmidt’s Vodka
in a plastic bottle. We found a burned-out sofa
along the East River. We sat and chatted in the
light of the Manhattan skyline. The skyline was 180
degrees wide from where we sat, and 20 feet tall. The
panorama ended on the far left with fangs since extracted.
At a certain point, we produced bottles, opened them, and took a long
draught. I watched her face while we swallowed. We were sharing an
experience. All context was removed. I was tasting and feeling the exact
thing that she was.Whatever else the German’s might be, the strides they
have made in modern culture, and in manufacturing, I think it would be fair
to assume they will not be remembered for their vodka.That is the reason
that I write, so I can portray an event so effectively and thoroughly, that the
“other” will feel as though they have been through it with me.I try to
establish the rules for interaction. I use narrative tools to define a space
where thinking happens, this place is outside of my head, and outside the
head of the “other”. Once the standard is set, and the wheels are put into
motion, the story could be written as easily by the reader as me. There is a
third mind, existing between us, and that is where the story is
told.
That is why I write, and why I do not blog. My pursuit of this
connection is tireless, and deserves the attention of the
parties endeavoring to attain it. I cannot compete with pop-ups, or the dog,
or television.
I use language in the hope of someday being able to define beauty as I see
it. Not just the thought, but the thought process. I want to be able to
express myself well enough to explain the world-changing rush I felt one
night. The tunnel vision, the loss of balance, the unadulterated thrill of
stepping over the threshold from pre to post. Just moments after entering
the nightclub bathroom, I had a goal. I wanted to be a writer. Someday I
hope to be the writer that can describe the thrill of possibility, the life not
attempted, and timelines not explored, a life’s new tack. I want to be the
writer who can emote with such power and clarity to be able to fully
describe the experience of seeing three words scrawled across a cartoon
porn star’s ass.
“She don’t care”