THE HURDLE

August 19, 2016

Bright Brooklyn sunshine, illuminating bare arms with flower tattoos on stylishly dressed freelance writer women

I am writing this play now. I started writing scenes a couple days ago and I forgot some things about how this tends to go at first.  The writing so far (I can’t believe I’m telling you this) has the quaint but useless quality of twirling aimlessly in a field while hoping lightening will strike.

And don’t get me wrong, the lightening god sees what you’re doing. It is lying up there on a cloud, bored to the nines, waiting just waiting for some worthwhile mortal to light with bottomless curiosity about the great electric mystery. It sizes up your twirling. It thinks: meh? The lightening god is not going to summon all its power to bless the meh dancer.

You have to rise to meet it. You have to rev yourself up. You have to call yourself out on your shit when you are just half-writing at one-quarter strength.

You think writing a play is easy? No. You have to put all your attention, intelligence, and life force into it. And the only way to do that, I find, is by killing your censor.

I have the dumbest thoughts, most every day. Bla bla bla who are you to think you can do this bla bla bla other writers already exist bla bla bla you need a haircut bla bla Gunter Grass was a novelist and sculptor and illustrator and playwright and won the Nobel Prize what have you ever done?

To which I reply.

HEY, LIGHTENING GOD! HEY!
You wanna fight? Then get down here
With me                                                                                                           In the ring
I will punch you in the nutsack if you try to talk to me like that                   I will teach you how to talk to a writer                                                    There are other snails, does that mean there should be no more snails? Oh, schoolboy logic, snap
I will school you on words, Jimmy                                                          You’re nothing without me
I made you
And I can call you Jimmy                                                                             I’ve unmade bigger fish than you
I’ve unmade narwhals
And by the way Gunter Grass was in the Waffen SS when he was young  AKA an elite Nazi                                                                                          And he didn’t admit it for 60 years
SO MAYBE SOMETIMES LESS IS MORE                                       LIGHTENING GOD
BRING IT ON
IF YOU DARE

My journal often disintegrates into stuff like the above.
I find it tremendously useful and freeing. I need somewhere to be a lunatic.

I’d rather be unfettered than tentative.

Break down the self. The self is shallow, polite, and masking deep hostility and fear and inappropriate aggression and confusion and desire and longing and hope.

When you write, you go deeper in the water.

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