Indulgence

verbose

I sit here typing away
making stories. Making. As if
one can actually form reality with words.
Semantics. Or is it semiotics? There is
nothing in the word chair that actually denotes
a chair. It is just a word. A recognizable sound,
one that we can spell in 5 letters,
that makes us think of the object in question.

I don’t make fact. I make fiction. I dress up words
and line them up and they make meaning
but not reality. But they fire from the bow
in my tense hands, quivering, tension,
tensed, fire and it can hit you
straight in the heart and make you gasp,
if I do my job well.
If I do my job well.
And so I can sit here for hours and I can pretend
to be someone else, be somewhere else,
be whenever it is I want to be. I live twice. I live
three times. I live as many lives as I have hours
on this chair and sitting here, I may not live at all.

I’m not universal. I live in my imagined world. I live
precariously in these words and yet, there is nothing
in these words that resemble real life. They’re just words.
They are just what I said. I write jump
doesn’t mean I get off my seat. I’m still here. I’m still
typing away. Reality is malleable in words.
I’m not universal. I’m not real. I’m just verbose.
I’m just imagination run wild. I’m just crazy universes
coming from the movement of my fingers, tensed, poised,
guided by muscle memory. I know where “A” is
and where “L” is and the thumb knows exactly
where the space bar rests. I know them better
than how to get here, or there or anywhere.

I’m not edgy. I’m not special. I’m not wondrous.

I’m just something unfolding. I’m just something
un-real pretending. It’s like acting but not actually acting.
I’m hidden. I’m not universal. I’m just imagination
becoming something not exactly what is intended;
something partially there. I’m just words sputtering out.
I’m just
I’m just
I’m just
verbose.

I have no fucking idea why I just ended up writing this just now but I did and so there... I just wrote it. That's what you get for writing 3 different scripts since 2pm and listening to Lindsay Lohan's new album A Little More Personal (damned good!) and wanting to go home and you can't go home just yet and you're out of ideas and it's late and there's Chinese food in the refrigerator and you're hoping no one is going to get it in the afternoon because you want to eat it for lunch tomorrow, if you wake up early enough that is and you're all spent and there's nothing left to write so you might as well go home and have a cigarette while you're walking and hoping there is still a jeep at this hour that will take you to the next jeep stop because another taxi will just kill you in the end of your already depleted finances but it's okay, no crying over spilt milk since you planned to spill it anyway and you had great fun and you kept talking about it in the last several entries of your blog and you haven't written anything in a while that was really just for yourself so it's fun to go around and write some verses and hope to God it sounds like something close to poetry which you haven't written in ages, mind you, and shame, shame, shame, you took all those classes in poetry and well, it's okay because you're more of a fictionist nowadays and Morx is still writing fantastic stuff and you can always go back to your old work and then there's always Mary Oliver and Peter Abs and Frank Bidart and that trusty good book of Rumi that you asked Tita Anne to buy for you, the one translated by Coleman Barks so you're off to a good start; so count your blessings, be happy, just say you wanted to write something and you wrote something and who cares what anybody thinks of it, just go home.

All right then. So I'll go home.

posted by wanggo @ 11:47 PM