Another on Writing and God
1/5/2010 9:12 AM – 9:33 AM
And New Years is over and a wonderful time was had by all and I am tired and my joints ache and I am getting old and I’m looking forward too much to the first day back to work poppy seed tea. It stopped snowing a little while ago. I’m cold and I want to go back to bed except that I know that too much of this will mean that I will feel fake.
There is only one requirement they say. There is only one requirement for a writer, be they good or bad: you can’t not write. So there is that. They don’t stipulate how much time you can go for before you need to write again. I think the best I’ve managed is a year and a half since I was eighteen. The time is passed where I can become a master of some other form. I might get good at something else. I might learn to sing and play the guitar. I might learn to draw comics, as I’ve always wanted. And they might be Good Enough. But to be a master of these things, of anything, they must pass with you from youth to adulthood. They must be a part of the grit of life that clings beneath the fingernails, forever etched into the enamel of trouble’s memory.
I’m not real. Of course I’m real. On the days that I can’t believe in God, does he still consider me? Or is he like my old pastor, washing his hands of us failed experiments? The girls that I’ve loved, are they still real even though I kissed only one of them? Of the ones that I kissed that I did not love, did it stain as deeply as I feel it did? Am I become the vampire boy only to discover that the ability to attract consists chiefly in the fact that I don’t give a shit if I do or not? I’m not real, of course. I’m real. And these are stupid words but they keep with the spirit of the Old Ego. Those that I admire don’t realize that they hate me. I don’t hate them. I wish them joy. And failure. Keep something for yourself. In the infinite emptiness of space (of which we are a part), the true population is always zero whether someone is alive to see it or not. It’s not that God is real. It’s that I can’t imagine anything is real if God isn’t watching it. It comes back to the top, like a good essay should. It’s not that you have to write. It’s that you can’t not write. I thought it meant a shaking of the fingers. It means the turning of the globe. I am become the fool again. Like I always will until the creeping mud reclaims me. It’s all I ever wanted.
And New Years is over and a wonderful time was had by all and I am tired and my joints ache and I am getting old and I’m looking forward too much to the first day back to work poppy seed tea. It stopped snowing a little while ago. I’m cold and I want to go back to bed except that I know that too much of this will mean that I will feel fake.
There is only one requirement they say. There is only one requirement for a writer, be they good or bad: you can’t not write. So there is that. They don’t stipulate how much time you can go for before you need to write again. I think the best I’ve managed is a year and a half since I was eighteen. The time is passed where I can become a master of some other form. I might get good at something else. I might learn to sing and play the guitar. I might learn to draw comics, as I’ve always wanted. And they might be Good Enough. But to be a master of these things, of anything, they must pass with you from youth to adulthood. They must be a part of the grit of life that clings beneath the fingernails, forever etched into the enamel of trouble’s memory.
I’m not real. Of course I’m real. On the days that I can’t believe in God, does he still consider me? Or is he like my old pastor, washing his hands of us failed experiments? The girls that I’ve loved, are they still real even though I kissed only one of them? Of the ones that I kissed that I did not love, did it stain as deeply as I feel it did? Am I become the vampire boy only to discover that the ability to attract consists chiefly in the fact that I don’t give a shit if I do or not? I’m not real, of course. I’m real. And these are stupid words but they keep with the spirit of the Old Ego. Those that I admire don’t realize that they hate me. I don’t hate them. I wish them joy. And failure. Keep something for yourself. In the infinite emptiness of space (of which we are a part), the true population is always zero whether someone is alive to see it or not. It’s not that God is real. It’s that I can’t imagine anything is real if God isn’t watching it. It comes back to the top, like a good essay should. It’s not that you have to write. It’s that you can’t not write. I thought it meant a shaking of the fingers. It means the turning of the globe. I am become the fool again. Like I always will until the creeping mud reclaims me. It’s all I ever wanted.
posted by Spike at 6:40 AM
2 ins. outs. what-have-yous.
