15 November 2018

A Sick Breaker-Box & Rimbaud's Pen

by Andrew

The macabre dance, like Rimbaud's love of the grotesque, translated from the French, though I can understand quite a bit. It's my watermark, I'm calling it. The nephew reminds me too, that it's a part of me, his potty-mouth, it'll be interesting next week to see, if they've disciplined it out of him.

But you have to play the game. You have to march quietly in-step. Till you get the strength,—it's in your legs—till you can run free.

And here I'll be, stomping my feet,—Rumpelstiltskin—pounding out a rhythm. But till then, you must keep low your head. Question absolutely everything, & never believe a drop of it. But you have to play-along.

Which, however, comes with the risk. Will you lose yourself in the process? quiet your instinct? Will you follow the herd off the cliff? A generation younger, your blood is more diluted, I fear my hypothesis, that it'll be more difficult to tune-in. If it hasn't all toppled by then, anyway, that un-relenting drum-beat. We'll see.

However, I'm kind of forcing it, this describing-of-the-grotesque. It's more like practicing, it comes so easily though. The observations are all there in my mind. I have only to give them word—only when I need, now, don't over-do it.

Because it's among the best qualities of my writing. Along with this un-describable beat I write with. Right there in the beginning, I was so focused on poetry. Till I realized I just don't have it in me to write like that—I think of Byron's "Don Juan," here, particularly. There's just no way. But I'd practiced for so long writing under the restraints of blank-verse—though different syllable-counts per-line. And then I removed those restrains & kept marching ahead, it gave my prose a little jingle bells, however.

My story-telling has improved. There's really no "fluff." I can't stand descriptions like, "the dark, majestic house touched ever so tenderly by the soft, lacquered colors of sunset." It makes me sick. Just give it to me straight, let's go. Which was always my worst quality, telling the story like that, a tendency to be all pretty-like. But that's a fairly easy one to get, this straight story-telling—a bit boring even, this dry story-telling.

What I'm struggling with the most is describing emotional states—fear, anger, joy, disgust, etc., etc., whatever. I'd even like to transfer the emotion to the reader, if I can. Practicing the story-telling how I needed, I got used to trying to tell everything by that, by the action occurring. But to add a layer of depth, I need to add some commentary, implant some of myself into my dry—though fairly poetic still—description of events.

I didn't even mean to get all onto this. I just started writing, & this is what came. I'd left-off about 2 hours ago writing the first few paragraphs above about the grotesque & my nephew. And then I had a note wrote in the margin, an idea of where to continue. Which, when I sat back down, I did. And then this is the result. How I was saying, that it depends a lot upon how you begin. And then on Twitter, I saw it, a quote from Hemingway, I think it was, to always leave yourself a little thread to continue. Which has just proved to work nicely, like wiring-up a web-server, or a breaker-box, you leave all the wires hanging-out, ready to connect what you will.

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