One day, you decided to identify as a writer. You don’t actually write anything of course, (which in itself is already a cliché,) but still, sometimes you do bubble up fragments of half-formed witticisms, a handful of which you decide could probably strung together into a pseudo-narrative, or at least an essay, and the thought of an autonomous body of work stemming from you is somewhat appealing. It helps you breathe through the cycle of eat, sleep, passively-imbibe-on-shit-media that would make up your life otherwise. It transforms the everyday. There’s a space, a sharp gleam -critical and with purpose- in your eye as you gaze upon the fortieth season of marvels agents of hegemony, or the rebuilt project of two and a half interpolations.
So you maybe start a journal, jotting down fragments here and there. You probably don’t, but if you do, you soon discover its sprawl doesn’t really accumulate into anything beyond itself. Just fragments.
You get disheartened. You read your favourite blogs for five hours. You get more disheartened. There’s nothing for you to add to what you already know. Nothing particularly novel, more well informed or better presented in your personal stylings. You just gazed upon other professional egoists and thought that you could emulate them because you’re so apt at consuming their product and feeling strongly about it afterwards. You stretch and walk to the corner store. You buy a soda. 2 for 1 day. You only wanted one, but it’s a nice gesture. Young couples line up in locked arms giggling to themselves. You offer your second one to some kid. He doesn’t want it. You pour it into the gutter. You wake up and go home. You stay there. You throw stones from the eighth floor balcony, and listen for them hitting the ground, but they never do. You look out the window. A thousand miles below, a death mask stirs in agonized sleep. In constant pain, but never on the cusp waking. It’s dead eyes stare, but never out, never beyond themselves. And so you lie, a fleck of spittle, ossifying on a suffocating rough cloth pillow.
You decide you’ll take a trip down to London. Bring nothing but some clothes and your journal. The nearest centre of the world, where the omnipresent dull fog of muddled miserability somehow takes on the air of a genuine cultural milieu; of some kind of higher purpose.
In the end, you stay in some overnight motel that you can’t afford near the periphery. There’s a crack running down the sink, and the tap drips no matter how you turn it. Back home it would drive you mad, but here you find its unquellable shoddiness vibrant, inspiring, a symbol of an impossible vitality in the most hostile of environments. You feel you could write forever about this tap. You don’t, of course. You go out to town instead.
You hate sitting in pubs alone, normally, but right now you feel emboldened. The barkeep asks you what you’ll have. You get a doombar. Inoffensive but not too dull, a modern classic. You don’t really enjoy beer, it tastes awful and just gives you gas, but it’s moments like this that you just have to not care. You nurse it for a while, and just listen to the chatter. The tables around you start to fill up. You feel a little guilty having this big area all to yourself as everyone else crams into corners. But no; you tell yourself that you have just as much right to take up space as they do. An enclave of young girls gathers at the table in front of you. One in a one-piece dress, extending to the minimum above and below her mid-rift, another in a crop top and shorts. You stare for a few seconds. You catch yourself staring. You hate the derivative, heteronormative nature of your lust. But you hate your perpetual guilt complex even more. You feel bowing to your superego will just fuel your fixation. You need to pass through it, till you just no longer care. No blame, nothing. So you just sit there, watching, while feeling uncomfortable and shit about it. It’s not like they’ll notice. This isn’t your city, no one knows you or cares enough to call you out. You’re fine.
God, you’re just a regular pathetic yearning sociopath aren’t you? You read Eliot Rogers autobiography a while back. A vague interest, to see if you’d relate or if you wouldn’t. Overall, it was utter trash. For all the complaining about being locked out of the jouissance of the other, there wasn’t a hint of psychoanalysis. For all the helpless alienation, not a hint of marxism. The entirely thing was a repetition of a generic deified misogyny and other vacant reactionary fixations, but without even an attempt at analysis or insight. Not even a minimal awareness. And yet it has a hundred 5-star ratings on goodreads, it has audiobooks and translations.
Maybe Eliot had it right; it doesn’t matter if what you have to say is derivative, tritely conservative or utterly banal. What matters is not the content, but the violence you commit to your ideology. Discourse is reified through the blood you spill, not through picking the right words.
Of course, you could never do what he did. You could never feel strongly enough about any perspective, not even the narrative of your own life, to fight for it. Words are just words. Thoughts are just thoughts. Even the best ones. You enjoy their company, but you’d never kill for them. You’d never die for them. But, you like to think, that if/when you finally do kill yourself, the manifesto you write about the fact might have a hint more genuine insight. It’s a comforting thought. You finish your beer, and go back to your motel. You take the morning train back out. Back to your hometown in Yorkshire or Surrey, some-or-other fatuous villa squatting in nowhere.
You wrote nothing. And your energy from last night is utterly drained. You feel no inspiration of an idea that needs to be expressed. Everything you could possibly say would be misleading and systematically wrong. But then, deep in meaning’s absence, its opposite starts to breathe. And so you type something, not as expression, but as exorcism. A vomiting. You expunge the thoughts onto the page so they no longer have to live inside you. It’s a convulsing, revolting feeling, with no orientating hope or promise, but maybe afterwards, you’ll feel a little better. As reasons or methods go, it’ll do.
i might try to post something here every couple of weeks, monthly at worst. i figured if i declared the intent to actually commit to writing, i might actually write. it probably won’t work.
i use pseudonyms because i am a coward. i do not condone anything i say ever, but that’s really hardly worth stating.