Thursday, May 11, 2006

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You make me never want to write again.

Don’t lie.

I’m not. Your writing makes mine seem obvious and mechanical.

Of course I won’t stop writing. But that doesn’t mean I’m lying when I say you make me want to.

You’re always saying, in one for or another, I believe in body language, I believe if I knew you well enough I’d feel your presence through a wall.

And I don’t like craziness. If a moment seems to be telepathic as it happens, and seems like projection in the next, then it’s because it turned out you were deluding yourself when you imagined some shared understanding to exist.

There’s no absolute truth in the moment of apparent telepathy if it’s only apparent. And fantasy isn’t satisfying if it’s too conscious.

I collect allusions and try to tell a story with the allusions. I'm hoarding words because I do lose control, I lose my spot, my place. We both dogear (rabbit ear?) pages, it’s the same with me in a story.

I don’t lose my place because I know I don’t have a place. I dogear pages in the hopes to being able to distill and share my understandings—to be able to pick out and open books in the midst of conversation.

You allude without any concern for whether or not your audience can hope to decipher or understand you allusion. Your fragments and allusions aren’t attempts to regain your place, but to escape the one you’re in.

I get beat up, thrown into institutions, or called poetic when I use language.

You get beat up and thrown into institutions when you stalk and grope unwilling women. You get called poetic when you talk about why you want to do it, write stories about it as a metaphor for the human condition. Ha.

Your treatment of Ava, Alex, CC prof, etc, has always felt like a conduit for your own yearning, yeah, I can’t think of another word, so yearning, for something less than language, less than reality, less than your reality (which is then..so on) Smoke in your eyes. Puff of powder.

Yeah, yearning. But yearning doesn’t mean that the desired object exists.

You concern yourself with body language and action much more than I do.
It’s a kind of running joke in my writing—the disavowal of the body coupled with obsessive narration of the body.

I need to drink to reciprocate.

You’re such a liar. You only choose to reciprocate when you can tell yourself that if it goes wrong, it might’ve been because you were drunk.

You never said I was a solipsist.

No. But you did—“our solipsism,” in your story.


And I’m looking, too, for the perfect drunk, only for me, the perfect drunk is one that I believe, in the moment and subsequently, to have meant something. That’s right, laugh all you want. But I’m never out of the moment enough, while I’m conscious, to be able to enjoy the feeling without the thought that the feeling is more than just a delusion. That the understanding is not a projection.

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You would make me write a different story. I believe if I knew you well enough I’d feel your presence through a wall. But I can't feel you through a wall and I can't get lost so I'll run into a wall.
I don’t like craziness. If a moment seems to be telepathic as it happens, and seems like projection in the next, then it’s because it turned out you were using your imagination. There’s no absolute truth in the moment of apparent telepathy if it’s only apparent. But it isn’t satisfying if it’s too conscious. A shared moment isn't profitable if we haven't invested ourselves. It might be overwhelming enough to write the same story many times. I never said I knew absolute truth. I said I knew physical reality. You have to believe more in instances. I have to believe more in continuity. I collect allusions and try to tell a story with the allusions. I'm hoarding words because I can lose control, I can lose my spot, can lose my place. I dogear pages in the hopes to being able to recall, distill, and share my understandings—to be able to pick out and open books in the midst of conversation. You want the conclusion. You don't entrust experience. But unlike me, you retain some sense of proportion. Your writing has always felt like a conduit for your own yearning, yeah, I can’t think of another word, so yearning, for something less than language, less than reality. Yearning doesn’t mean that the desired object exists, however there is yearning beyond desire. You risk nothing when you believe nothing ever touches anything else. You don't believe in us enough to let us yield to you. So you write stories and press people into situations to get the expected results.
You saw I don't even know enough about the reality of the situation. You read me right to think I believe I know something inexpressible. And I'm looking, too, I want to believe, in the moment and subsequently, for it to have meant something. I’m never out of the moment enough, while I’m conscious, to be able to enjoy the feeling without the thought that the feeling is more than just a delusion. That the understanding is not a projection. You’re such a liar. You only choose to reciprocate when you can tell yourself that if it goes wrong, it might’ve been because you were drunk. You don't want any reminders of mistakes. You know I will keep trying to get you right and the mistakes might pile up, or worse, I might write over you, I might give your body a few memories and I might listen to stories of who you were once. When I said I wanted you from the beginning it was a fallacy, but not a lie.
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