i got the rage in me every now and then

Keep stealing from other writers, as all of ‘em do, but somehow when I steal it never turns out to be grand theft, just a simple misdemeanor; I get a slap on the wrist and I’m back on the street again hunting down my literary pimp, need to score some words and shoot ‘em into my veins, feel them race through my bloodstream, giving me the high of my life.

Because I’m after the madness, searching it out, looking in the deep, dark crevices of my brain where it usually hangs out, waiting for just the right moment to spring into action and ruin me as a human being…it stalks me like a homicidal maniac, watching me, taking notes, learning my behavior, my patterns, rummaging through my synapses in hopes of exposing some vulnerability, some tragedy from my sordid past. But my madness hasn’t factored in the level of my courage. It doesn’t expect me to confront it so boldly in the light of the noon day sun. It’s sitting there, hibernating like a big black bear conserving its energy for the big hunt.

And the words keep coming and I can’t control their flow. They just want me to lay them down on paper, in no particular chronological order, no real meaningful way, just smash them against the page like a Pollack painting, put the words into a turkey baster and squeeze them out through the tip, watch them splatter all over the page, combine with other words to form colors and shades and contrast and composition, drip off the page into oblivion, into obscurity, into thin air and space.

What matters most is not the stringing together of a succession of words that express a specific idea, thought, dogma, truth, philosophy, point-of-view, or opinion. What matters is getting the words down, even if they stray from your original intent. Even if they become obscure and oblique and predictable as a rock-hard c**k at dawn and you read them out loud to yourself the next morning after you’ve slept like a teething baby and realize what a piece of s**t it is and crumple it up and toss it into the circular file.

If you can get up off your a*s and do that again and again, then, congratulations, you got the rage in you, too.

Reviews

[Mari' Emeraude]

I think when those words decide to come out, day or night, wherever we are, they just come whether we're ready or not. A pen and paper are never far from my reach!

[Philip Gaber]

That's good. Maintain that habit, girl.

[roarke]

Yeah man, this: …” And the words keep coming and I can’t control their flow. They just want me to lay them down on paper, in no particular chronological order, no real meaningful way, just smash them against the page like a Pollack painting, put the words into a turkey baster and squeeze them out through the tip, watch them splatter all over the page, combine with other words to form colors and shades and contrast and composition, drip off the page into oblivion, into obscurity, into thin air and space...”