2001-06-20 11:05 a.m.
life as pathogen; we're all ill

gnostic theory at work:

first off: if a certain comic book company doesn't buy the book we've thrown in front of them, they're slippin'.

just wanted to get that straight.

why? because I've just skimmed through the new issue of Wizard (only because I get it for free), reading what they've got planned for their mature readers' line, and our book not only hits the cylinders they want to hit with their books, but it's freakin' smart as well. It's strong, street-wise, and they're kids in search of their lives, reaching for what's just out of reach.

granted, they could be playing it safe for reasons I'm not aware of, but that doesn't soften the blow of being ignored, does it?

�

then there's me.

what the HELL am I doing with myself?

I'm swimming upstream, and all the people I meet just keep cracking me on their head with their paddles as they kayak by, yelling halfhearted apologies. In comics, in work, in love, in life.

Maybe it's that time seems like it's passing so slowly. That's always affected me, the idea that I can't make events happen any faster than they will. The idea that people spend ten years in any given industry before they're allowed to finally make their mark really freaks me out. Maybe I really am a product of my times (the "instant gratification" era), or maybe I'm just bursting at the seams to get things done.

(or maybe I need to finally get moving on meditation and yoga, get physical, get blood pumping through other organs than my brain and my loins. funny, that.)

It feels that way sometimes. Like the only things on my mind are emotional needs, sexual needs, and the urge to write until my hands give out. Those are all that really matter to me right now.

I feel raw.

Did NY bring this out in me, or has it been the constant movement in my life that seems to serve no purpose? Maybe both. The harshness of this place is like a 24-hour pumice stoning.

It's also been the pace of my love life. Everything's felt so accelerated, both from me and my partners. I've never had anyone (except perhaps for M, but not even necessarily with her) that things didn't move at lightspeed with. No one where there was no pressure to reach any particular point. I don't know that I'd know what to do in that situation.

�

left turn:

I'm reading Lorca's book on duende, and I need to hear this music, the siguiriya, read more tales of Egypt, of the Romany, of older peoples who handle truth with less distance. I want to understand this purity of expression, these absolute moments of Pain that he talks about. Not because I'm experiencing them, but to understand that moment, that singular moan from the voice, from the fingers, from the pen.

I wonder who has written about other states like these. Joy. Fear. Rage. I've read about some at length, some in short-form. Even written about them myself.

I think I can safely leave wry, light short stories to other people, to people who write for the New Yorker or the Atlantic Monthly. I don't honestly know where I'd get the shimmer stories printed, other than as a collection. They scare me sometimes, though they're not horror.

These snapshots, these fevered moments of revenge, of instinct, of joy...these are my reactions to life.

Is life a pathogen? how do I make it part of me, like the vurts in nymphomation?