OK, so they say when you have nothing to say, write anyway. Of course, that’s exactly how you end up with a world full of morons. Because they speak, though they have nothing of substance to offer. But if you’re speaking, they say, you’re already in motion and the flow might lead you to something brilliant – in the same way as, say, you’d stumble upon a block of gold while spring cleaning your Ikea closet.
Exactly. You woulnd’t. That’s my point. So why then am I writing again, my friends? Because it’s been a long tim since I last found joy in writing…or rather, wrote freely at all. And I’m a born entertainer. Back then I entertained – yes, maybe myself, but you gotta start somewhere – and maybe I wasn’t superb, but I did get a sense of joy, a feeling of “alive” out of writing that I didn’t get anywhere else.
But I don’t want to talk about my life. Not what I do for a living, how I feel in my little room, at my 9-to-6, on my weekend treks to Brooklyn. That’s all normal stuff. I don’t want to be a fake-o, who writes about reality, grasping at its straws to pull them out and dig up its essence. I don’t care about truth, essence, reality. I refuse to write thinking. I refuse to think and then write. I want it to come freely. Like a song, like a creek. Like a liquid “ruisseau” flowing from your lips as you pronounce it correctly. It’s just there. Automatic.
But that’s hardly enough material for a book. I say I want to write a book, but all my ideas require embellishing, and I don’t wanna. I wanna write “wanna” when I wanna and not feel badda bout it. That’s the kind of writing I want to do.
Now I’ll tell you that my neighbor left yesterday. She has a huge thing for Jews, though she’s Asian herself. Why? I don’t know. At first I used to think girls with Jew crushes were instinctively drawn to a clean phallus. Now I realize that most guys have that. So perhaps it’s their hairiness. But she says it’s the way they’re like Asians – except hotter and more successful. How a Jewish guy can be hot I don’t know, but then again, thank goodness for differing opinions and rosy goggles or we’d be stuck with a world full of penguins. Black and white, and that’s all.
There, you see that? That was it. The spark. It came out on its own. Where did I get penguins out of Jews?! But I did, and I didn’t understand it myself why I wrote that, until I hushed and went on, and let my brain express itself. You see, this isn’t me speaking really right now – me entails a shy girl sitting behind a desk most of her days, sipping on coffee and trying to fit in French, the news, running, and cooking all in her schedule – but this…this is my brain. My brain alone. Hello there, I’m saying. And I is I, the brain. Nice to meet you, paper, typeface, audience. This is why I like to write: Because most of the time I’m hidden inside, but when I write, I express myself.
If I had the guts, I’d convince this girl who types now and sees the words I dictate to her fingers to let me sing, to let me dance, let me act. But she doesn’t want to do all these things. She longs for them, dreams about them, but when it comes down to it, she gets scared away, retreats to her 9-to-6 and sips a second cup. Well, nice to meet you, too, but she’s sleepy now, dragging me with her heavy eyes to close already.
And so we’ve reached the end already. If I had one last wish tonight, it’d be to write. Keep writing. Not just tonight, but beyond. You know, I want to write stories so bad. Just fiction. Pull fragments out of thin air. Just like I see them sometimes, moments that pass beyond me for a second or two, then let me go. I want to learn to catch them, write them, share them. Scratch the last one; that I only want for me. In truth, it’s enough to write it, enough to satisfy this girl. But fame seals the deal. And so I hope to write it. Yes, I am that selfish; I am The Brain of the operation. And I like it.
PS. Merci to Abby for the lovely notes, like two blue tulips laid on my profile. And this is just the rough draft…