"Writing repels me because I find it so damn narcissistic. Few writers will admit to writing for financial purposes (although, of course, most do), yet no-one ever thinks to ask; just why do you write then? Well lets take that, that little nugget of a myopic quandary and sqeeze it burst. A bit of projection is needed here. I am a non-financially motivated author (stay with me for they do exist, you sneer though I promise) I sit down at my desk, I write. What do I write? The expected answer of course is ‘everything, anything’, I choose my subject, I invent my world, I am limitless. A romantic notion, one I’d joyfully cling onto, yet one that cannot proffer grip. To write is to exhale an inorganic puff of invention from the annuls of the experienced; it is, as such, to exhume your own identity. So writing is signified crying; a manifestation of such extreme emotion that the mind can only give itself over to the pain it feels. People do not cry because their Dad dies, they cry because they feel coursing pain – and in this they overtly invest all attention into their own being. This self-possession is like writing. An author writes to scribe down his thoughts, his feelings: his natural possessions, thinking that these possessions are worthwhile of others’ considering, are – in thus – actively superior to the roaming majority. So a writer, Change – and I say this as you yourself eagerly flirt with the sneaking temptation to steal this, the last sausage upon my plate – a writer can either write out of financial wants or a narcissistic personal ego-trip".
ego-trip. That has a nice look to it, I can see it in my mind. A bit like a one of those frontally elongated sixties race cars driving from right to left; the little dot upon the i a controlling head attached by unseen arms to the dash on the t for a steering wheel directing the rounded end of the e towards its goal. I haven’t been listening to a fucking word he’s said. Something about writing, wanking, wank. Wank it I want that sausage. I remember myopic quandary actually. myopic that looks like another car, look at that c! it’s a fucking wheel. Shit. The world is made of car racers. The world is made of fucking car racers. I might suggest, no, he wouldn’t listen. I wouldn’t listen to him, he wouldn’t listen to me. two inner knobbing monologues about knobbing. No, not nobbing, that would be funny. Nobbing. Nobbing. Shit, no, what was I thinking about? Nobi. No. cant remember.
My eyes travail the objects upon the table as my mind rescinds into thoughtless holes. I sight the plastic shape used to hold four beer cans together and think it looks like the miniature hob of an oven, but the fluid beneath reminds me otherwise. It’s just the plastic shape used to hold four beer cans together. I look at him saying something about flirting with temptation. That’s fucking crass. Clichéd shit. I like him a lot although I know I shouldn’t. I want to see a film about no one in particular, about a place instead where people flit in and out of focus as they blithely come and go, where the situation prevails over the characterization. I want him to stop talking
“stop talking” I laugh.
He looks at me and I see in his face the words ‘Change, I didn’t realize I was talking’. I know he didn’t, but I still wanted him to stop. Now I intensely don’t want him to say those words I can predict; I don’t want anything more said that can grate on my antipathy to clichés, and if he fulfills my projection of his next sentence he will commit the uber cliché – the expected! This will grate on me but its okay because ive just spat on his table. He wont say it now.
“why the fuck did you do that?”
I’m quite happy to explain, but its occurred to me that in my instant of decision, id first thought of stabbing my cheek with a fork. What mental process overran this? Surely self-preservation; its fucking quick then! I answered my problem through cheek stabbing, realized this was harmful and thought of something else. So I spat on the table.
I’ve explained this now but Johnson’s going on about my neglecting of the point in hand and the harmful (he used that word, honest. No, really, honest) implications the splash-back splatterings of spittle (again honest) can have upon his subconscious. I think he talks a lot and I think a lot but don’t talk. Im rather pleased its this way round, but I’ve just realized that he’s talking again, so I failed, so I spit on the table again.
Johnson looked up and searched his friends face for a crack of humorous high-jinx. He righty saw none and smiled indulgently in response. Pursing his eyes and laughing, Johnson fell back into the sofa he had been perched on and sank into its cavernous folds. This, he thought, is the sofa upon which I rhyme and reason. Let him have the table. And the sausage.