is this Spring?

You learn to tell things as they are. You learn to cut back. Minimise to the point of. Lying. Based on what is there in. Front of your eyes. What you saw. Or what they say they. Saw. Or what you heard. What she is. Saying. Cut it back. Though. Time. Time. Timing. Timed. But it did. Definitely happened. It’s only that. Having cut it down that much. It did not happen. Quite like that. Still. Being told is never quite as interesting as having to work for it. The most liberating art — interpret art how you like — is the stuff that makes you work. Forces you to drop. The walls. Bash them down. In. Your brain. It shows you something in a new way. That you didn’t know before. You didn’t know you could think. In. That. Way. You didn’t know this was thinking. Or reflecting. Or imagining. You didn’t know you had an imagination. Like this one. And then there it is. Then. You have to work out. How to keep it. How to — to borrow capitalist speak — grow it. Fertilise it. Produce. It. To flourish. So liberating. Frightening. But liberating. List the stuff that has done. That. Succeeded.


digging in

Without writing about it, the idea is to write about it. Currently unclear on the it in all of this, yet also trying to be less clear. Zooming in to the epicentre then zooming out. And possibly in and out again. Mm. Questions of first versus third person suddenly seem huge and terrifying. Never been encountered before. Here and there. Up and down. Above, below. Followed by deep distrust and disappointment with the clarity of contrasts and that easy jerk of olden days journo style that slips its palm over my eyes whenever I’m not paying attention. The cat is in on this. It talks to her. Perhaps empty out the middle and fill it with a cat-like creature. Give the cat a role. Avoid alien because that’s like the up and down stuff. Pulling and scratching at the obvious. Maybe it is the obvious, so the drive to obscure is, likewise, inevitable. Take away the subject, the aim, the ambition of the idea, and allow the clarity to take the stage. Then the fuzziness will be there only because it’s being ignored. Its presence will become the menace. This feels familiar. How-on-earth…

un-rewiring the book

all this time worrying about how to fill all those pages, worrying about the importance of fuzzying, the importance of nuance, the importance of doubt, the importance of contradiction, of confusion, of untruths, non-truths, half-truths and no truths, of faulty memory, real trauma, imagined trauma and imagination, of avoiding certainty because there is none, of avoiding definitive accounts, of refusal to state the facts because there are none or there are too many or there are some but they don’t really make that much sense anyway… all this time, and now she’s told she’s got to sum it up in one sentence or perhaps a paragraph or, if she’s really lucky, five paragraphs, because if she doesn’t do that bit no one will buy it… in producing what she calls the sales pitch, she is forced to unravel all those years of rewiring her brain (in order to avoid the false truths she’d been trained to produce)… so what was the point of all that? the horror! the horror! after all that, you have to sell the product in precisely the tooled-up terms that you had run from, screaming that you’d never ever do it again, because, she’s told, that’s the only way anyone will be persuaded to buy the bloody thing.