the beer said it was ok to do this

what if there was a thing like a novel but not, that somewhere in something like a chapter that might be number twenty eight (with two of the intervening numbers taken up by the thing of things like poems because they feed off the same database & use a very similar codebase) had something like this in it:

progress. the music still seizes me clenches me into a ball of wire through which the unpleasant current of the present passes.

aside from that i am beginning to see beyond this, a glimmer of a future like a barren landscape stretching to the end of the continent and fading into waves of green and grey, lit with the hectic light of a gathering storm; in other words, a future i can picture myself living in, an acceptable outcome of all of this, not the future i would have preferred but not one i will … reject.

& what if it started out like …

like this …

on with it then. fiction? i assure you this is pure fiction, and also all true. or real, i get the two confused.

there are two, maybe three levels of thoughts and processes unfolding inside me as i type this, perfect pure things which, i assure you, are as worthy of my attention as the mess on this table or the sweat trickling down the back of my leg. in the space between me and these words, the air has weight and texture and somewhere in the intersection of all these facts i am living an entirely unrelated life and then some. the tapping keys? there’s your fiction, for in fact these fingers are right this instant curling in the thick damp hair at the base of his neck, tightening in the ecstasy of the smell and the taste of him and there has never really been anyone else, not like this.

is it real? reality is all electrochemical processes in the synapses, so yes. although most of my own reality is probably mine and mine only, i imagine. and i imagine constantly, and consider it vital to my survival. without it, none of the tangible measurable definite absolute verifiable actual shit out there would matter. i inhabit my own mind primarily and the world as necessary, and sparingly, never all of me. always part of me is wandering in the mind; i would say this keeps me sane however technically it makes me quite the opposite. delusional, anti-social, disassociative, handful of extra personalities, little nihilism thrown in for good measure… hell, i’m half the DSM4 on any given day, and i’m here to tell you, the illness is not the issue here – it’s the presentation. it’s in the way that you use it, it comes and it goes. it’s about style and proper form and a firm, solid stroke. it’s the spin and the way you use the wind. it’s in the wrist, mostly.

there is no fiction here in this malleable reality, even though at this point my life is more imaginary than anything else, serious intense fantasies involving all the regular senses and then some, and me with this sense of urgency, doing everything i can possibly, as if my life were at stake.

because my life is at stake. and this has given me metaphysical energy, absolutely, and it is my first time. this energy may contain the potential to change things tangibly; it is perhaps possible that i can write this real, physical real, if i love the words perfect and pure. it is also possible that these words are all i’ll create, in other words, this would be the answer to all these pleas, by which i mean, no. i want to say i will be fine no matter what happens, however i would be lying. there has never been anyone else, not like this. and yes i am ridiculously in love, i wish it was a reasonable feeling, however there has never … you know.

fuck. who wants undying love anyway? anyone? how about if i tell you about this guy i knew, had the undying love for his wife, who died of cancer in his arms. he kept her voice on his answering machine a good year afterwards, only erased it when he started dating her namesake, the first of several namesakes. sometimes, love should die.

anyone still wanting the undying love? i’m going to have to ask you to leave. go on now, be creepy reading someone else’s book, ok?

and with this my throat closes up and my face twists into the other side of the story, very nearly crying. trying, just failing. it comes and it goes, and when it’s gone i am alone in my skin and skin can starve you know; mine is weak. three years. and it is real. physical. right now i feel wrapped in steel wool.

and this, right here, is the self pity. the word pathetic may have been unsaid somewhere; no more.

i do have stories to tell. i whisper this promise to myself, i will tell them transcendent. hopefully this is just loud enough for you to hear it too; this voice (my voice?), it is so tentative and unsteady. new maybe.

maybe new.

what if this thing was written in an entirely bloggy style because the girl who wrote it did stuff best bloggystyle?

would it matter?

14 thoughts on “the beer said it was ok to do this

  1. i love to hear you, liz.

    and “right now i feel wrapped in steel wool”? is the exact way i would say it if i could, but i can’t.

    you can, and that is a gift.

  2. beautiful post lizard BRAVO somedays ya know most days I struggle to keep up with you. you make me think hard about what you are saying questioning what she really means. definately a sign of a good writer. you amaze me what you are capable of in the valley of the code and how did you do that player right there anyway? But this one I got. this one I felt. this one smooooth.

  3. you’re not fooling anyone. you’re a writer. if you try NOT to write it your skin would fall off and your guts would come flying out your nose. just write it, and goddamn the world.

    as to whether it would “matter” — see above.

    i find that the moments in life when you find yourself asking “should i even write this?” are exactly the moments when you not only should, but must–for which all else was but a preparation.

  4. I happen to want to read every sentence of every chapter. because you are a writer whose words frighten me and captivate me and take me to places i didn’t know i wanted to go.

  5. I happen to want to read every sentence of every chapter. because you are a writer whose words frighten me and captivate me and take me to places i didn’t know i wanted to go.

  6. What he said. fear not, its not the words that will kill you its the being imprisoned and sent to the saltmines, oh thats just in russia. Did you say these things in your head before the beer? I’ll bet you did, if so its better they be out for a while, to let new ones come along and help you soar to new heights of creativity.

  7. this is excerpts from the “non-novel”, not something i wrote anytime recently (well, chapter 28 was about a month ago) but chapter one started i believe, in june.

    i take november off because everyone & their dog is writing a novel in november so i try to be ‘different’ & stuff. also i have other excuses. but i’ll be getting back to it in a bit, it needs to be retooled & rewired (the parts in between these parts) & … stuff. but i’ve been doing this for months with no feedback at all so i had to do this to make sure i wasn’t like, you know, i don’t know, do you?

  8. the title will be…? and the denouement…? ever. i believe in undying love i am the personification of undying love it’s a faith and a force and a feeling and it is forever. i believe

  9. it doesn’t have a title. it … has a denoument i can’t at this point write, as i haven’t exactly … um … well i’ve gotten to the point i can believe it’ll never happen but not to the point i can reliably describe / write it &/or see beyond it except in dismal imagery like the first quoted excerpt from the latest chapter written.

    fiction. gosh sometimes i make it sound like a thing that’s like, happening & stuff. (remember: reality = synaptic activity = delusions = fiction = truth = sex = forty-two)

    fiction. that i just haven’t been able to deal with in its entirety quite yet.

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