The lamppost was cold under the flesh of his palm, the round railinga thin strip of reliability in a world of chaotic disappointment.

Day 47

The interesting thing about trying to write in a surrealist style is that the free association only lasts so long, a few minutes, until the outline becomes recognizable enough that your mind then forces it into some familiar form/trope/whatever. Once it’s into the groove, it’s near impossible to break back into/outto the surrealistic frameless frame. I don’t know what’s to be done about this except to accept it.

And now I’m stuck in this mode of trying to find someone to plagiarais. How on earth have I written 10 books and 30 short stories? Where did those ideas come from? Life, experience. And the way I am living now is killing me. I am bored, utterly bored and I have no inspiration for anything. I am emotionally dead and I am afraid of coming to life again. I don’t want to feel anything I don’t want to have emotions, I don’t want to be involved and have to deal with other people and all of that shit.

I also don’t have an audience, I have no one to perform for. I no longer blieve that anyone is ever going to read what I write, and so I have no impulse to hyperbolise, to create elaborate emotional arcs. When I was still paranoid, I had someone living in the back of my brain .

The places have no reality and the people are faceless and formless. The rooms are all square, the furiture all has 4 legs. What else, white ceilings, a pot plant in the crner. Artless, joyless, lifeless. I have no connection to anything, I am a ghost in my own body, drifting past meaningless objects, buildings, gas stations, pharmacies, Walmart with no connection to any of them, no care for any of it. I am here for no reason except that I need to be somewhere.

FUck it

For right now, I don’t even care. The only purpose of this undertaking is to get the fingers moving again, to find some kind of rhythm, some kind of cadence; some sense of motion in the stagnated flow of my mind.

Green light? Some kind of nebulous glow. The blurry image of a candle-lit world through alf-closed eyelids. The high-pitched whistle of the tinnitus in my ears. The odd, racked posture of my neck and head against the wall. Maybe I do go down this weekend, get some human contact.

I have images and memories in my mind from previous storis I have written. I can call most of them up, I can conjure them, at least those moements which seem the most poignant to me. But I cannot imagine anything new.

FUck you

The eternal futzing with phones and keyboards continues. I simply cannot find a comfortable place to sit, and comfortable position to type in, a screen to type it onto. The whole thing is terrible and awful and I hate it all.

But this is better, I have to admit, on the phone with the fancy, totally not thocky keyboard. In this position I feel some measure of connection to the words coming out of my fingers, some sense of looming over it, dominating the nature of the reality boof.

Render render biggest ender

The fonts are also nearly the same size, and there really is something about the size of the screen. Too much real-estate freaks me out, too big of an overview, too great a sense of distance. Which probably makes no sense to anyone but me. Looks like I’m selling the tablet and buying another phone.

No, It Isn’t an Autism Thing

It is weird, though, the difference that having the correct set of writing implements can have. The biggest thing seems to be the size of the text relative to the size of the screen. The tablet is simply too big. It’s too fucking big. In order to get the text to be the same size relative to the pixel real-estate each letter needs to be about as big as my fucking thumbnail, which at this distacne is simply too big. Too big. Too big.

And, weirdly. The tension is gone now. Admittedly, I’m not trying to actually write anything of stubstance (nattering of this kind is certianly not substantial), but I nevertheless feel much more relaxed, and my findgers are moving better, and the typos, well… whatever.

I honestly don’t understand how people can write at a desk, or do anything at a desk, for that matter. I have always loathed that position for sitting in and it stultifies my mind. It kills me, poops me, rapes me.

It’s there, I tell y9ou

There is something to that story, the one I’m tryign to write right now, but whcih is eluding me. The psychotic detective. No, not a detective, a body-disposal guy. Right, and he’s responsible for recording the person’s memory and trying to extract something from it. The romantic, easy idea is that he’s scanning for the murderer’s face, but really it’s usually something quite different. It’s the person’s last thoughts, the image of a flower, the feeling of the first drops of rain, a word, a sight, a sound.

He’s just having a bit of trouble with his mind.