“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
The fact that you haven’t written in weeks or months and the faint idea that it might be because you CAN’T. But there’s no laptop, there’s no inspiration, there’s no stability but the endless uncertainty makes you too anxious to reflect. There’s just computer screens and numbers and dollar signs washed up in pints of beer and endless wine and an extra 10kg to carry on yourself. But 10kg is not the weight of the world.
I don’t know how so many great writers, singers and artists can be alcoholics or drug addicts when any and all substances just leave me in a cocoon of depression or euphoria. Neither one is romantic or inspired and inevitably ends with me lying on my bed eating haribo.
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don’t do it. if you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it. if you’re doing it because you want women in your bed, don’t do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don’t do it. if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it, don’t do it. if you’re trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you’re not ready. don’t be like so many writers, don’t be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don’t be dull and boring and pretentious, don’t be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don’t add to that. don’t do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.
I still feel sad when I think about all of the bills and insurance which he so carefully paid on time. His insurance he paid too much for but never claimed. His shirts which were always pressed and his important letters which were never misplaced. And what does it account to and who was it for?
Everyone is snapping up the presents they bought this year, last year, the one before that and then decades ago. Another personal endearing quality was that even if he had no use nor like for a present, he would keep it on the sentiment that someone made an effort to give it to him. A small heap of cards I made, clumsily bound by ribbons and with half glued patches of glitter and sad drawings. It all bears testimony to this.
But back to the presents — it’s like flies humming around shit which is not an allusion I like to make on any human level but everything they take and everything he has to offer is so meaningless because it has been so utterly expelled from the person. There is no traces of him to be found in the designer collinder or flat screen television. The walls are being covered to be sold on. Life goes on.