August 11, 2007 § Leave a comment

Bad days and then good ones, when the fog of thoughts clears and becomes a straight line.  I’m remembering all sorts of things about myself: that I’m an impulsive writer; that I love history; that I can’t wake up early to save my life.  I’ve decided to go with it, permitting myself the illusion that I have a choice.

I write in the late afternoons and early evenings; at night, I hit the archives, reading pages of scanned text from other decades and centuries.  One by one, my hunches are proved correct and I am buoyed by a certainty I almost never feel.  Save.  Back.  Next record.  Fuck, I’m right.  Save.  Back.  Next record.  I’m actually right.    

There is theory, and then there’s what actually happens.  Follow an idea over time.  Watch it emerge from the realm of intention and meet with the air of the world as it is.  Then watch it slowly, imperceptibly corrode as it merges with the fears and prejudices of a particular time and place.  Watch it happen again and again, in different ways but always with the same result. 

Save.  Back.  Next record.

Vision blurs, dawn comes.  I sleep on what I have found, and, by morning, which is really afternoon, a distillation process has occurred.  I drink coffee and write as far as the line takes me, ignoring the cramp in my wrist and the children shrieking in the alley.  For now, this is what works, and it is good enough.


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