The first blemish on a blank page seems so far away from being art. The same is true for me when I start to write; I feel like I'm bursting into a quiet room with all my typical noise and thunder. This is just a little bit of filth to get me started- to get the juices flowing. The problem is not content, I have plenty of that floating around, I just need to find a starting point. A place from which I can leverage my way into the world with my pick and my spelunking gear. I do like a good fragmented sentence. I think they are most like real conversation because if you've ever noticed, conversation is a fluid thing- most akin to a messy sexual encounter. We're exchanging ideas and forgetting which limb is whose- but only if you're doing it right.
It isn't a clean thing. That is what I'm trying to say.
I did two immoral things this weekend. I censored a child and I washed some graffiti off the side of my house. To make amends with the wronged parties I invited the child to question his experience and his elders through the perspective of a few challenging coin games and I bought the rogue artist some proper outdoor paints and invited her back. All is well in the land of Oz.
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