below, an uncreative (collaged) writing exercise from a class last month. note its date of origin (5.12, a Tuesday, my unlucky Mars day, in the span of fifteen minutes, and I hadn't yet seen Poor Things), publication here (17.01), and context of Switzerland, though all source authors lived in NA:
HAHAHAHAHA JACK MY SWAG HAHAHAHAHA JACK MY SWAG
The world is wide, wide, wide, and I am young, young, young, and we’re all going to live forever!
For years I have been a prisoner of the Watchers. These great hypnotists have no idols, their magic is powerful and their appetite insatiable. They thrive on misery but have great delicacy in choosing their victims. They evoke compassion but have none themselves. They possess unlimited knowledge but have no understanding, and this gives them the power of the absolute, concentrated.
I wanted to slap one in the face. Instead, I slapped him with my thoughts.
But then again, we are just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach our car, our locked hands like a starfish leaping through the dark.
Facing us, in the distance, there is another group, a group called the Weavers. These are the ones I’m trying to join. I have to leave him to be with them. Their power, of course, is pure being pure color great happiness.
The chief element of happiness is this: to want to be what you are. For there is nothing either good or bad, only thinking makes it so.
There was a time that…It's difficult to explain, but I just somehow feel that I never really lived, really existed…in the sense that other people do. It drives me crazy. I was terribly aware of it all those nights waiting for you in the Ritz bar looking around at what seemed to be real grown-up lives. I just find everybody else's life surrounded by plate glass. I mean I'd like to break through it just once and actually touch…
Dissolving margins, where change is also loss. In that state of mind, all trace of feeling is banished. Or rather, the trace becomes All. I realized, in other words, that I was alone, and saw the gift and the burden of that state. And went on dancing in my grotesque disguise, but not before I told him: “I am lonely and miserable, but I am wearing my last skin. Since you are almost face to face with the Gods, the Gods do not abandon me.” In human language, this is called love.
Whenever I remain silent in a certain way, I don't love you, have you noticed that? Why does it seem like the only way to live is to disobey the gaze of de-potentiated love?
For every mistake we make in these dances must be turned into a question, otherwise they are fatal to our human condition. Writing becomes a co-morbidity of the dance. Some people write simply because they don’t know how to live in the moment and have to reconstruct it and live in it afterwards. i.e. she had lived her early years as though she were waiting for something she might, but never did, become.
All that remains of that minute, the desire, that waiting is time in all its purity, bone-white time. Waiting you can hear yourself living.
