Thursday, November 19, 2009

The mouse file continued. Thanks Fellini.

Sickness
All I do is think about it, but I say that’s too much I say it rides me mad I say I want to write and not just think it and if I think without writing I start thinking about not writing and I get angsty and do not write, or write badly, which takes me off the wholesome rise I intend to continue on and augment. I get sad. I get sick. I get sickened with the sad self, so screamingly sickened in fact that’s why I’m doing it, popping movie file after movie file after tv episode into the VLC. I am trying to overload myself with something else, boil up an idea, get myself well and fashionably, self-consciously high on the discomfort over someone else’s art and the notions it involves me in, the writing thoughts. The shame. At my own not writing. I want to simmer till I’m boiling and be all vapor and eventually a conceit of eroded copper colored tailings at the bottom of a non stick pan, me ready, doing. I want to overdue it.
I am watching Fellini. I watch because it makes me jealous and eventually disgusted with myself, and then I think I’m tired and then I think just a few more minutes and then something happens on screen that dissolves everything else momentarily. E.g. like just now, in the wake of getting seriously bored, and muscling past the half, suddenly he is in a harem of his women, imagined and wading in every boyhood fantasy through an upgraded lens, bubble baths and seaside gypsy whores, wives and lovers, up in the attic for the older than 26, down in my lap when they’re younger, and I can’t help but think about the constrant reconstruction effort every bit of work I put together is. I see myself on the screen, narrating. I am transfixed, I mean incapable of moving, moved and effaced and stranded in the black and white kooky solipsistic funk of pure art. I mean finally I like it, I like it a lot, and it inspires. But it is so pure and imperfect and complex that I can’t help but just keep breathing hard and thinking that the mouse, like my mouse chipping away at the hall walls, the mouse which more or less ruined my past night and upon which (whom?) I placed the burden of today’s misfortunate lack of writing, or ‘writing’, or quality material thereof—stuff that can, decidedly, stubbornly, truly, not be worked, like poop —I mean the mouse seems myself in something else. I am to the mouse as the film is to me; I am imitated and simulacrum-ed and seamlessly replaced, transcended by what a man with a thoroughly different background, I mean an Italian with different age and taste in glasses, has thought up filmed and placed before me (me, protagon, understander, complicit bystander, sycophant) myself, momentarily, to myself.
In this gift, I am torn between basking in the lengthening of the moment, and cementing it here, on my own screen, and it aches, as I am transfixed. I can hear the long overdue water having boiled entirely away in the kitchen, leaving the orange sediments telling what I tell. I hear the pop in the distance like popcorn with the last drop gone like a swan song, like 8 and a half ounces finally done. They call it typewriting and I type—my arms and hand move like another’s arms and hands. Which makes me sick, as if I were watching through a camera, through a window of a moving car, capturing. Every piece should be a swan song. Every piece should be the last piece I put together, before moving on, changed. Every piece demolishes and rebuilds. Every piece is good old pain.
I sound like a teenager. I am here. I am now. I am wondering if the cup of tea I’ve fixed is still drinkable, and why the girl on the third floor that lent me the rat poison pellets answered the door with her pants showing her underwear through a clearly unzipped and unbuttoned pair of pants and why such a girl—I mean a devout German protestant—why would she do that. It made me feel poopy. I am bored and self-loathing and lonely right now. Irish friends of friends where suppose to call last night. They didn’t. I am alone. With a damned mouse. Why am I so scared to go to sleep if I know the bucked trap or the poison will get it? I am alone. I am a fraud. The mouse is a reminder. The mouse is a half-assed conceit. I am sick.
I sip my mint tea and try to forget about it all. There’s stuff on the screen. I’ve done this. This is me reading it through. I pat myself on the back and try not to vomit on the keyboard. I’ve done something. Later, I get this published and am sad at how ugly it is and sadder at how accepted it is and I become a pedant and a drunk like everyone else. I live fashionably and never alone. I become a clotheshorse. I start thinking I am also a serious photographer. I get a student of mine to publish pictures in his friend’s start-up press. They are horrible. I go around comparing myself to DFW. I will never be DFW. I am a fraud reading DFW. I compare myself to Fellini and Bukowski. I have nothing they have but the women. That’s a lie. I am here. I am sick here, now, then. Late at night I come home from the Copa and I watch episodes of brit com and vomit into a bucket. I have mice for pets. They are in another room. I hate them. They remind.
Fellini seems to love himself, which is a brave thing to do. He refuses the need to absolve himself, to say ‘Hi, I hate myself’. He avoids self-medication. He inspires.

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