Writing Notebook Summer 2012, page 1

Spontaneous Prose writing Experiment #1

I’m brainwashing myself. I’m going to believe in things that I don’t believe in. I’m cutting apart my mind. I’m slicing up that which can’t in-actuality be divided. I’m thinking terrible nasty and vicious nice little thoughts that shouldn’t yet be thought of. I’m blurring my eyes. I’m observing dreams of what is actually there not there. I’m going to see people that have never existed. I’m going to see the entire history of the planet earth, a history that one day will have never but maybe it will have been written. I’m the sun and the circle and time is never delayed. The sun is within my mind and nothing breaks the image that is already there. People laugh and time laughs and up we go. Up-up and down the circles of the eyes shape the cosmos as the drains of sinks gargle out the planets, and as invisible lines form the chaotic storm settles-settles-settles-wait-wait-oh-no because just then a black hole forms on earth the first day that the world war was scheduled to end, and it just so happens that this was the first day of spring not winter no actually for the record it was fall.

“Oh how typical” the writer says and then he doesn’t even know that instantaneously he dies as smooth lines taken from the stellar refrain sings doe-ray-me so nice and ea—sy. And me-ray-doe-so-so-fa-fa-no no-echoes from a writer who hasn’t written a word yet. He’s falling down back towards the blue sky when snap your fingers you monsters and dancing free thinkers, wait-yes-wait-oh-no you’re awake again right as a supernova breeds green book a’ reading and cannibalistic trees. “Oh thank goodness” a voice is heard at day and night during July or December. The trees have never-ever-would they ever have talked out loud. The trees have only spoken every other history that has ever been, so this must mean that the person that is and is not the writer must have said those two quoted words.

A smoke is lit and words are read as the stars are singing the covers of the beatles who wondered what could or could never be-be-be-but-really everything was once there and not there, it’s all up to the number that doesn’t exist yet. And oh by the way have you heard that the writer believes that life was built on the truth of paradox. “How funny” he says, one more toke, as right that moment “Oh how typical” he says once again as the same black hole eats up the earth the same way during the same time at the very same but different moment once again.  

Nothingness is as loud as a garage band that is forming those distorted cartoon frogs that croon for gingerbread snaps and the bug lamp kills more life than a nuclear bomb that suddenly goes off down the block five days before the world ends once again-again-again and slowly fast forward to this not this but that day when suddenly what isn’t even possible is breaking apart as the writer sits on a drifting and lost satellite that has been destroyed and then latter on just later on the space junk has been created by the quasars melting inside of a wasp nest with the guts that are morning glory seeds and now right now-not now-but now are blooming within the hearts of dying stars.

Time stops. Space crunch. Time implodes. Time is back to see how it has already ended. “Oh how Typical” is the first words an alien ship receives, and yes-no-maybe so it goes like this:

Shortly later in the distant futureless future the writer and his voice are received by the aliens that put down a book by their favorite human writer named Franz Kafka. They swoop down and destroy the planet earth. The aliens take the writer who uttered those words they heard hostage. They ask him to sing some theme song to movie that has not yet existed. His fate is unknown and known in the past tense of the future that will never be. The name of the alien ship was the U.S.S Oh So Typical. The writer was forever speechless. One day he spoke again.

I’m brainwashing myself. I’m going to see people that have never existed. I’m going to see the entire history of the planet earth; a history that one day will have and not have been written in crayon, but a history that will be perhaps be written with colored pencils.

 

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