Last night, I read to Dale the piece that Map Literary picked up. We then had a discussion. I know, beyond any shadow of any anything, that the piece is brilliant and perfect and does exactly what it wants to do and should do must do was born to do. Dale said that the piece is like walking into a classroom where a physics professor has written loads of complicated high level endlessly complicated formulas and equations and looking at them overwhelmed because you know nothing about physics and have absolutely no context. For me, that is an abstract expressionist painting. We discussed this and Dale said words don’t work this way that way. Words are linear. I said except when they aren’t. I think he wants a narrative. I also think it’s different because he didn’t read it himself. Maybe if he ever reads it himself, he will feel differently. As for me, walking into that classroom, as an observer, I love love those equations that mystery those things I cannot even touch even begin to really know. I love that Kandinsky not to zero in on one corner but to let it wash over me the horse pound me down the color suck me and drown me.
But maybe I’m full of shit. Because I also know that the things I love best are things I write myself or could have would have wish I had written myself. Yes, other things too. Yes, of course, but in the end it’s my own writing that most often knocks out my teeth yes I am that selfish yes I spend more time writing my own stuff and yes reading it too than I do reading other things even things I love because yes I am that truly so far up my own ass head hat stuffed mushroomed explosion of brain that I am what thrills me most. There it is.
Which leads me to an essay I will be writing. I love Lena Dunham, her book. The writing is immature as is the girl, but she is me and she is HANNAH and I love Hannah almost almost just as much as I love myself.. Which is saying a lot. That self-centered self-absorbed me me me lookie lookie me me me what I marvelous thing I am. I am that and Lena is that. It is we are what we are. And I love that.
So the manic writing switch has flipped on. I will ride it. I just have to be sure not to exhaust myself. Shortly I will speak with a student. Then I will rest. We are having a couple of new friends over for an early supper and long conversation.
I wish that you if you want to write to love your own writing and create a beautiful thing I wish think you too should stuff your own head into your ass and smell it and think wow ain’t nobody’s shit stink like my own shit. Oh, and taste your earwax, if you haven’t already.