Chronicls of Infection • • • Seasonal DisOrder [pt.2]


What whiskey will not cure, there is no cure for.

– Irish proverb


Third, after having engaged in writing for a couple of years and when serious about it, at some point it will occur to the writer that just writing on the occasions of «feeling inspired», short of immortality, will never ever get the job done. So then one must begin fishing around for better methods of getting one’s lazy behind planted in front of the typewriter or laptop [and optional voice-recognition mic]. Classical, couch-potato laziness [TV, internet, iPad] and sheer everyday inertia [where did all the hours go?], as well as failure-anxiety are three prime causes for folks not to achieve their goals of becoming one of the «most brilliant writers of their generation». So to overcome these devils and so as not to just plunk oneself down to type during the bi-monthly, half-hourly throes of inspiration one is best of, consciously or not, to come up with another psychotic «fantasy of agency». Inspiration is too fickle, volition is too daunting; what is needed is «a higher force». This higher force or force of nature compels one to write, overwhelms one as an individual until one is left with no other choice other than to sit down and begin typing, hoping for the forces to sooner or later flag so one can go back to pursuing whatever possibility-of-failure-reduced, low-cog activity one was engaged in prior to the «individual natural disaster». The threat with which the higher force compels is the most forceful in the arsenal: death. If one claims that to write is to exist, to breathe, well then one better get cracking before keeling over from one’s chair all blue-headed.

Personally, I think this delusion is seductive but fundamentally bullshit. What serious writing requires is extremely straight-forward: A) routine [like the guy who said that he can only write when he is inspired and that he makes sure to be inspired every morning at 9’o’clock] B) the will to write C) concentration and structure. You have to actually fucking want it. This is why I was, in a certain regard, in a paradoxical funk these last few weeks. I wanted to write and I was writing but not what I really, really deep down wanted to write, which ended up feeling like I was not writing at all. And so if I wasn’t writing that meant that I was lacking routine and/or discipline, which at the end of any given day, is just a manifestation of a lack of «will to write».

 


But actually none of this matters. What matters is that last Friday after I got back from a deathly day at work the unexpected jumped back into my life. I got home, dumped my backpack with the spine-deforming laptop on the desk and made for the kitchen. I punched together a gum-loosening Whiskey Sour, using GlenFiddich [15], Jacarumba cane sugar [brown pulvery stuff] and just ye good ol’ Aqua di tap. If I ever become an alcoholic or if I contract the alcohol sickness, it will be on account of this drink, which uncorks some inner bottle of «being content». To compensate for this I also grabbed a carrot, made for the living room and slumped down on the couch.

No, that is not true. The truth is often so cumbersome and heavy-footed and all-out unattractive that nothing can be done with it. Its your best friend, ok, always has been but you probably, given the choice, would rather not show it to family and friends: mouth-breathing, over-weight, slow-witted. You mean to tell it to sign up for the gym, to “do something, for heaven’s sake”. But the truth stubbornly refuses any beautification projects, insisting on its right of immutability as basic true-or-false component of the universe. Wherever it goes it knocks things over and crashes the state of affairs under its massive weight, its ridiculous feet. It forgoes fashion and the benefits of colors, insisting it must stick to either black or white or gray. You stop arguing with the truth, it is the truth after all and let it just sit there, good old friend, in- and exhaling through its enormous mouth. And you note, happily, that its breath is always fresher than anything you’ve ever known.

I took note of the truth’s ass’ huge imprint on the couch but it was nowhere to be seen, must have gone out for a walk earlier. The couch turned me the wrong way so I went back to my room, looking out on a little, loveless, all-concrete inside court enshrined by three apartment blocks and a hotel. The hotel with its high, white-curtained window is an enigma. The tourists there come from the far end of the continental shelf I live on. If we tried to communicate we could forget about our mouths and see what hands and feet are able to convey, which is achingly little and subject to ludicrous misunderstandings. The tourists are over there, recovering from Eastern continental shelf weeks of work that, I imagine, have ground their souls into a fine spiritual paste that perhaps can be applied as a pealing. Or the souls are perfectly intact and I am one for exaggeration.

So then I sat down in front of my notebook to consume: whisky and comedy and carrots, a nourishing triplet. The doorbell rang, which is a rare enough event that I almost spilled the Sour all over myself. The truth has been given a copy of the key [not just for our appt] so I was justifiably pissed. Cursing I got the door and a delivery guy appeared with an envelope and a crappy, old-school, tiny digital screen for me to sign on with a plastic stylo. My signature looked nothing like my signature.

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About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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