Trite. Yeah, that's the word. That's what I am. I'm a human bumper sticker. Instead of sentences, I speak in platitudes. Or not. Nothing but aphorisms would make for an unreadable story, just like the novel that doesn't repeat a word. Oh, and it was unreadable. I mean, he wrote a full novel, some 150 pages. That takes something. It's creating something to stand out not to stand on its own. Like dedicating your life to collecting 8-tracks or knowing everything possible about obscure bands from the early 70's. Not to put that down. I sound like I'm putting it down. Some people want to stake out a piece of the universe and know everything about that corner. That's cool. I tend towards a more universal appeal. Something that creates its own context, that doesn't rely on history or culture to fill in the gaps. It doesn't require you to know beforehand. That's what I am drawn to.
And it's difficult to relate in that case. I know it is. There are other people that relate though. And maybe it's just my corner, no different than yours. So this isn't about the novel. I guess that was just an example. It didn't start off as an example. Not important. Christ, maybe it is. I should chase ideas down any corridor I can find. So the story was nothing but a bunch of lists. Outlandish descriptions of items I've never heard of in paragraph-long lists. No rhythm, no reason. I'm sure it made some sense, but it just seemed like a rambling mad man found a word processor to me. Was it an experiment? Was I supposed to read the whole thing? It's just something to know is out there. You can go to bed tonight knowing there is a novel of moderate length that doesn't repeat a single word. (Not a single word? No, not a single word.) It's a security blanket for those that find it difficult to get anything done. The uninspired and the lazy can both relax knowing that their work is being done for them.
The night surges forwards and backwards. It was at one point tonight 3 AM and I was at my laptop diligently punching keys. My roommate kicks my door down. The hinges are old as is the wood and the screws just rip the wood off. “Quick! Do you know the Heimlich?!” I respond in the affirmative, but I can't imagine if I nodded or said "yes" or what. So he grabs the cat by the hind legs with one hand as he shoves a dead bird into the cat's mouth. Luckily, the cat, which from now on will only be referred to as “it,” bites down and swallows the bird whole. “I... don't know if I know how to do it on cats though.” I lied earlier. I said I responded positively to my roommates question, when in truth I should not have. I've never had any classes or anything. All I know about it is what I learned from TV and informational pamphlets in restaurants. I could look it up, but I learn by doing.
Focus. FOCUS FOCUSOCUSFOCUSLOCUSMOCISROKEIS. Focus. To learn, one must focus. There are characters. I keep thinking about them. I guess I should call them people. Better yet, friends and family and acquaintances and people I've seen and some I haven't and there are a few that haven't happened yet. I'm talking about the unborn here. I'm talking about the American holocaust. No, not the slaughter of countless, or should I say uncounted, Native Americans, I'm talking about fetuses. We should be concerned with whether or not we are feeding our imaginary pets and dead birds. We should concern ourselves, as a nation, with the amount and frequency of geriatric bowel movements and how this swirling, ignored storm of evacuation, this uncharted land of defecation and micturation, this unwritten map of collusive and deliberate acts of pure and also by definition, meaningless, filth is intentionally (I have assigned intent! This is called anthropomorphism, also known as exhaustion and madness.) creasing our neatly folded clothes into other neat creases, simply a few inches over. How embarrassing to have a crease right next to the other crease. The proper crease. How infuriating it is to watch them dance as they draw nearer and then again further away. Staying out of reach with knowledge (Again dear reader! The crease knows something we don't. Let's listen in...) that it cannot be caught. Well then what's the point of staying out of reach?
We're getting off course. Like a member of alcoholics anonymous drowning in the lake near his childhood home. It's simply not what he wanted and it's definitely not what we want. So let's resurrect him, our little Lazarus, and appoint him king of a small nation. This nation gets invaded by a better armed, stronger, smarter and also better looking nation. Still no good? Let's drown him again. Don't kill him though! Let him breathe. Catch his breath. His eyes wildly search for you, but you don't exist and neither does he. But we drown him again. (Yes dear reader, you're doing this too. You're drowning him too. If you disagree with torture or murder, simply stop reading. Walk away. No? Fine.) Your hand presses down, the water is freezing cold. You can't feel it, but then again you wouldn't be drowning a man if you could. At least let's hope not. Of course he struggles. That's why you're doing this. To test his mettle. He somehow twists and grabs you and plunges your face into the burning hot water. It's not as pleasant as you imagined. Both of you feel your lungs begin to fill with water and he doesn't look so good. A little blue. So we end the exercise. You both bow and walk out opposite exits of the room.
As you're drying off with a towel my lovely assistant provided, you notice some writing on the wall. It uses letters you've never seen before. We both try to read it, but we just can't make it out. How disappointing.