"Very well, then, here is the devil's version of the world, of your world, the version written from the experience of those who have been demonized by virtue of their otherness."
You breach that moment in time when you are sure you're about to spew forth something inherently offensive, and yet to hold back is to shoot your muse in the foot.
Charles Bukowski. Thou art god. And no, not just for being offensive; any fool can lay claim to that quality, but for the sheer power of the don't-give-a-fuck that you gave to the world. The recipients have never stopped clamoring for your gift.
I think about you for a time, and like any red-blooded-noder, I compare thee to myself. Mine are a history of collected writings, my own, and completely not my own at the same time. The nodegel. It is a recollection of evenings, mornings, exhalations, and deprecations that I will never say sorry for; for that is the point. Good writing involves a crisis. Good writing is not a string of pablum, a collection of do-good-hero characters that never suffer. Suffering makes for a good read. And this is where my history, the nodegel as it were, comes into play.
I read many of my "non-factual" (which are nearly all daylogs) nodes and they are nearly all about a certain woman in my life. She is different and special in each and every one, and yet she seems to create a certain archetype, and that archetype has always inhabited the incarnation of my muse. She gains strength with every character I infuse into a sentence. She is short on forgiveness while long on understanding. While it may not make sense in RL it makes for conflict, and as has been previously stated, conflict is a good thing for a narrative.
break
Ex-Girlfriend: "Do you wish that I was staying?"
Me: "Now THAT is a loaded question. There's no question that I care about you very much."
endbreak
I'm sorry to have disturbed the flow of words that were hopefully coning in on a conclusion, but that is the text-message I just received from an ex. She is moving back to England on the first of the month, and we have already seen each other to say goodbye. I asked if she was still leaving on the first, and that is the reply I got. WHAT does that have to do with this writeup? Everything, disjointed as it is.
It is one of those life-disturbing moments that causes the stream to fork left when otherwise it channeled right. My discourse would've eventually touched on another girl and the story her and I shared. But fuck that. Enough with the women. Though they are angelic, at the moment I am a devil that needs a fire to rest in a bit. I need to breathe the elements of my own creation and walk a road where I can meander, peacefully, whistling a tune I made up for the occasion and satisfied with nothing else but the sun shining on my cheek.
I honestly had no idea it would end like this. I hoped to gouge your eyes with libel, satanic verses, and the most vile utterings of truth that you never wanted to hear. I wanted to be Bukowski for a moment.
But I realize I am me.
And me thinks that maybe it is time for a sabbatical.