Potluck

 

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Potluck 2.0 launching soon! See you in the new year!

 

Illusion

All this paperwork. Fiction, reams of it. I look at all this shuffling paperwork. Writing is a seven-lobed process never enjoyably, except when one lies, creating worlds. The process of creating worlds involves interaction with compliant deceit, laboratories of emergency always on standby, imagination pushed through sudden jets of steam, the sound of worse things to come. Creating illusions is akin to police agents pushing state secrets onto you - it is horrible. The laptop purrs. I look at my watch. Fiction implores you to move emotionally by that which does not exist. This is not illogical, or a paradox, that is the great mystery of human nature.

Fiction involves the state of an empty room to enevelope you. Writing is the empty room pushed onto you. Reading is the hangman’s grip. Veins bulge, bags of protein implode, different body sizes and animal parts enter waking dreams. Everyone and everything you know, or do not currently know, but are inside you, will be there. It will be fun. I hope so. Are you okay? The cutlery is on the table. The writer is in his birthday suit. The reality of fictitious states is on its bed, out in the corridor - snoring. If the paranoia is in the form of fiction, are you really paranoid? Imagine now fingernails on a blackboard, nails in your wrists, and a knife through the webbing on your hand. Do you shudder? Do you recoil? Your imagination is fiction. Your recoil is fiction. 

Non-fiction is a leprous, dull affair. Unimportant. It is like the sickly other patient who shows improvement but ultimately is toxic. Memoir walks in and tries to shut everybody down. Memoir sits above the elevator waiting for your imagination, and then marches you out into the meadow, the killing field, leading you there with middle class attendants, all busy with your one death. Nonfiction is a scabrous failure; a mingled puzzlement that takes its impulses through the bloody, surgical instruments it so loves. When your hand scrapes the terraced wall, slap that gas-stained memoir away. To live in a state of fiction is to live metaphorically; it does not mean we live in confusion or mistakes.

You are in your state of imagination, in the chair, stains on the wallpaper. You are terrified of fiction, of lies, of illusion; the cells inside your body take the effect of burning inside the whole inferno. You wish for reality. Nevertheless, reality has all the consistency of a five percent glucose solution. It is sweet, but sticky and unnecessary. Fiction races after you, belting out the eye chart that dangles on the sawdust floor. You could use a little more heat in your life. 

No more servants or house cleaners who work within the hematology of beginning, middle or end. That style of plotting is woozy. Plot is fakery; it is like the implants left by a surgeon at emerging daybreak. The inside of overcoats on rice paper. Memoir is the axiomatic alphabet of an unintelligent world. The window moves past us, the train shoots shields to cover us. Clear your throats from your dreary backgrounds.

Groups of literary movements getting everything wrong. Systematically they have all the interesting aspects of hanging locusts. For example, they don’t know anything. Fiction is the glorious ghetto building moving blindly in general medical rooms. Medicate yourself in permafrost and be done with it. The dark room fills with the psychological tests of nitwits writing their memoirs, their expensive armed elbows all swinging about. Capitalist publishers yelling into the telephone, shaking their company’s credit card about - BRING ME A STORY THAT TELLS YOUR LIFE STORY AND MAKE IT SNAPPY.

Handwritten notes are the worst. Fiction as telepathy. All stories not written, but mind uploaded and transmitted as telepathy. Imagine, Tolstoy not picking up a pen, his whole story is thought out in his head, written though instantly composed, except its not words, it’s the actually fiction of his head. Once this fiction is complete, it uploads to those in the vicinity that want this story. A composite of stories, the initial Tolstoy story is re-written, what is the real story? What is the fiction of the fiction? Which story is the exact copy? In Hell, there are already nudists who play this for sport.