i've got all these ideas--i've got all these ideas that im tryin to get out as fast as i can but the ideas are like white caps on black waves, just a flash and then they're gone...and i feel slow and tired, like that story u told us about going fishing with a bunch of guy-guys after drinking all nite and gittin no sleep and then heading out to sea, at first feeling vaguely romantic about the cold and the darkness but then the sun came out and the guy-guys started throwing chum over the side and setting up the lines and u felt sick from the heat and the smell of the bait and the sway of the boat. everywhere u looked were slippery guts. u rested yr head on yr arms and got a sunburn on one side of yr face. finally, after zero action on the lines, yrs got a tug, and for the next two hours u wrestled with the line and the thing at the end of it that had much more invested in the outcome of the battle than u, but still u struggled stubbornly on...wondering why u continued to care as the work got harder and harder and u were sweating and wanting to puke but in the end u managed to pull the enormous dark shape of the fish out of the water and hoist it aboard where one of the guy-guys took it upon himself to grab hold of the beast, take out a gun and unceremoniously bust a pill in its lid...smearing its perfectly evolved head across the deck and ensuring that the prize u fought so hard for could never be mounted and admired...
that's what writing is like for me: each word is a fish and the guy-guy with the gun is time.
brooklynzon
whitey
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