Thursday, January 14, 2016

Writing a book, is like if someone gives you a thousand business cards to alphabetize, except that they are not business cards, they are moments, and you are ordering them not according to the easy alphabet, but according to certain elusive properties that cannot be named, only discerned, as in, by a medium.

So you start – you have to start somewhere – and you keep at it, and almost every moment you touch, multiples into several moments, so that soon, you are working with ten, then a hundred thousand moments.

And your shoulders are covered in a latticework of tightening leather belts, except they are not your shoulders, they are your trapezius muscles. Your traps, because they trap all the unordered moments, a tension exacerbated by writing, but which only writing can cure.

Friday, January 1, 2016

Writing a book, is like sitting in a roadside diner, drinking a bottomless coffee, and talking to a rotating cast of friends, strangers, relatives, ghosts, some willing, others reluctant. And I am both the medium, divining, remembering, receiving, and the secretary, writing it all down verbatim, occasionally obliging, "Read that back to me."

Saturday, December 26, 2015

You guys, I missed the streets. I missed standing on the pedals, riding the wave of streets. My streets. I missed the video game overlay, the undercurrent of song, I missed the continuous, ever-changing landscape.

It's like I was in a drawer for seven weeks, and finally time has torn the drawer out of its bureau, and tossed it into the sea, and I have never felt so alive. Time heals all things. Time, is slow, until you see how tall the buildings got while you were absent - from the streets. I was absent. I am back now.