Generous, sensual, even when aggressive: I am still not a person of scruples. Yet you will rarely see this manifest anywhere but in art, as in: writing allows me to cheat. To cheat at prose by taking off…the deadbeat dad of definition, explication, clarity. She renounces responsibility to structure for the wilds of illimitable play being the gist of what my eighth-grade science teacher noted regarding my baroque style of lab report. He told my parents that I described dissecting worms with the lexical élan of Daphne du Maurier novels. What they did with this information was enroll me in more worm dissecting classes. My worms were, like Daphne’s, humans and decaying social tissue. Placing each subject on a neutral glass slab, I would dismember it for parts unspoken.
So you see how…running multiple fronts of linguistic devilment we may bestow reality on the irreal barbs that otherwise pepper only our mostest intimacies. Writing allows me to cheat myself out of an awareness of all which has been said since word began…to stave off the scurrying rats of redundancy along the backroads of Just do with shadow puppets of my own largess…And in doing so, even coming somehow to tolerate the reviled selfsin of words reused on accident, for here, in the clearing…in the "second place" created by language…I may walk the streets possessed, a dog leashed to one wrist and a device in the other hand typing worldblind into [app] because word has come and to it alone I must attend.
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