I have been in a writing flow. I am not sure why. It has been making me feel insane. I don’t write like this often–daily, output, words dropping like parachute silk, evergreen buds, butlers in the Solomon, or_______ (geese hutches)–and it has made my insides thrum, like when right before/after illness, feathered a bit, or a September of stimulant addiction, or should I say a patent leather case full of escapades and springy steps of bare, high, summer hills. (I mean a train journey through snow, though it is clearly not snowing. Keep brushing off the snow, commenting on the snow. It is NOT snowing, why do you keep talking of snow?)
Do others feel this way when grooving, like hollow?
I don’t like the feeling, or dislike the feeling. I think it’s maybe 60% dislike to 40% like. Why? I mean I can’t sustain it; it’s too thummy-clud, too wired. Usually, when I feel this white clouds/blue air/red Amsterdam type of energy I run, hard, into the sweet embrace of pain. Pain is so clear and honest. And then the energy ebbs away and I can talk, listen, stumble, sleep.
What has made me write this way? Theories:
* I have a concrete project. I know where I am going (but of course the destination will change like a black tie, tiepin, black hair). Robert Penn Warren said writing a book was like driving a car at night–you can see about as far as the headlights. I don’t know.
* Flow leads to flow like one drink leads to another drink leads to…(please don’t say my manuscript will vomit up a curb)
* I have spent the last few weeks in the forest. The forest makes the mind settle, unravel like a dying wave, then go all hysteria. Moonset, sunrise. Glowing orange eyes. I sit in my stand–way-ass up in the air, swaying, swaying in the wind–and read, read, read. Watch, watch, watch. Reading and watching too much is like playing too much chess. Head will throb like a heart. It will make you crazy.
I saw another cat today. Size of a diet Sprite.
Been reading HTML Giant a lot. So what? This: I keep buying books. I don’t need more books! Thanks, HTML Giant! You asses.
Some fool emailed me about another fool about another fool. They said, “The word is Blake Butler (talk about evidence that Blake drinks) says he knows more about nachos than you (this was told to this fool in Queens, NY, during one of Blake’s tours).” What? Than ME?!
Ok. Ok. Anyway, somehow one of my (many, many–maybe 45 and counting?) nacho Thunks made it online…
Here Nacho Hybrid/Poem. (I didn’t know this was online. Then I Googled [verb] myself, and now I know. It’s a rough draft of what appears later in Sonora Review.)
(More than ME about nachos? I retire not to hurl. I can’t get over this.)
(Can not wait for the dinner and book of nachos and the Food Channel calling and…all that settles this.)
Dinner as I type?
OK, these are only level 3, and obviously processed, obviously tertiary deprived, BUT I am busy tonight, and they do have the beans (black) fried, fried again! And I still eat nachos almost every day (I missed one day two months ago–the flu). The point is on a night I don’t have time to eat nachos I do. Because I AM NACHOS.