Woke in dusty-nosed haze, wondering why some days I wake with energy and grace, others with a pile of sticks for bones and a cord of low burning wood in my chest: heavy and can’t remove without trailer. Browsed Facebook for a moment with Kickstart my guide, found too much Trump, and too much fake, and not enough real. Thought about my (fake) book, book of fiction, literary but real enough.
Put this in: Mael watched his wires under his skin, the tendons and muscles and bone, watched him sigh and flutter like a little schoolchild with his inspiring books and thoughts. Nestled beside him, beside Erotikon and the Gandhi autobiography and Midnight Salvage, crippling sins burned from Bible verse. He found a mountain of books while She breathed survival. She never understood. She wanted to understand. She wanted his approval.
Bow-stringer came today, along with cheap work gloves and cheap goggles for the end of the world. Strung the 60 pound draw-of-a-bow, found it supple and strong. A good takedown bow. Takedown means: arms can be removed, packed to smaller places. Important, but bubble-wrap isn’t manly and a foam case isn’t smaller. Also found an arrow rest for cheap, updated Bug Out Bag notes and texted to girlfriend and self. Thought about beer, and sampling, and inspiration. Thought about summer and cabins and farms.
Read Malcolm X for class one, the freedom he found in prison by reading all the hate white people enacted through history: in US, Africa, India, China. When people were vulnerable, white people attacked, and now wonder why hate is so strong against them. Wonder why everyone else is so pissed about the skin line war. Huh, Christianity. Huh, Colonialism.
Words flowed and I hated myself for being white. A good hate. A learning hate. Growth from forest ire.
He only read one novel. His whole life. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. How do I appeal to those who do not read fiction? How do I gain acceptance, approval? Empathy here: I don’t seek approval, else I’d write different. Simpler. Words my brother likes. Heart hurt thought: what if, when nobody reads fiction anymore? What would you read after the end of the world? Quixote and Emerson? King and Koontz? Defoe and Morrison? EMPs are bad. So is fear.
I write for me and I don’t connect to the stories I read– “Look, is it good?” Father doesn’t care. Hurt? She’s seeking connection with others with words. She asks them for value. You are valued, I say to the words. You are. I seek connection with self with words. For others to follow my path? What am I, writer? What am I? Dog chasing his tail thinking he leads himself following.
Slipped into flash fiction for next class, understood all sentences separately. Made no sense together but resonated deep, like a foreign language written in English. Image-picture snapshot of seventy pictures, seventy sentences. Still makes no sense but made me want to cry, write, so I write.
When I read others’, I become writing. A phalanx of particulars unloading from this trojan horse.