New story up at Full of Crow Quarterly, which is kind of a groovy place.
The story’s called Tracks of Time and it’s related to an old story called Whiteout, which came out forever ago, and it’s also much tied to a novella I wrote in May, that’s kind of cyberpunk, kind of surrealist mess. I’ll judge its quality at a later date.
I’ve been a bit all over the place lately. Not writing. Maybe that’s why, letting go of that which holds me together, but it’s so very hard for me to write during the summer months, and it rains all the time here, which, I mean, it seems like the perfect time to write. Especially when considering how I look at rain, what I feel about it, and how its such an impossibly thick metaphor for me, how anything can happen in the rain, how water is boundary of reality, holding it together, but also the only place you find the cracks, the holes in existence, between the raindrops.
It seem idyllic, but rain consumes me and there’s nothing left for the page. No room for words, just water. Water falling endlessly.
and i hope it rains forever
I think I’ve written that a thousand times, not only in english, but in french and spanish and german. I write it so often it should no longer matter, but it always does, somehow more, with each syllable typed or written.
I don’t feel much of anything at the moment. Confused, mostly, I think, about how and why, who and where. My life is full of fleeting presents that I can’t hold onto, not even in memory, so every day becomes too new, every night disconnected from the day that it follows.
In the morning, it’s always new, and I never remember. Never remember what came before or how I came to my bed, which could be explained away by drinking, but I drink rather infrequently here, maybe once a week, sometimes twice, if I’m feeling saucy.
I just can’t remember. Falling asleep afterdawn, waking up an hour or three later, time crumbling, and it’s no surprise, maybe, that I’m obsessed with temporality, with the only thing that makes us human and how I can’t seem to understand the measurement.
Time eats you. Dead or dreaming.
I wrote that, too, in a novel, and maybe in a hundred more.
I meant to talk about something else, but I’m stuck in myself it seems. Selfabsorbed, narcissistic, completely alone.
I like it, though. I feel most myself when I’m alone. It’s the world that’s lost, not me. Maps and compasses. calendars and clocks, they all mean nothing to me.
My calendar’s stuck on January, a way to count time, I suppose, through subtraction.
All must die. But first we’ll live.
Written on my calendar in black and red. Double printed. I did that, but I don’t remember. Not even sure how long ago, weeks or months or only days.
Sometimes I wish I could give it all away. All the stories I’ve spent my life dreaming, all the lives I’ve pretended, imagined. I have forgotten so much about me that I’m sometimes surprised I’m still a person. My life washing clean, but never really, always carrying the weight of my mistakes, the weight of existence, the cost of a life.
Moribund. I don’t mean to be, but I’m the typer. I’m content.
But never satisfied.