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anada393
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.* O . . .. ..O .. 393 14 Jul 2001 ) ( ')
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* ***O O O O O O O O O \( _)|
* O o o.*..o.*..o.*..o. .net "Calling Doctor Carrion" *
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* |,4- ) )-,_..;\ ( `'-' by Infernal *
* '---''(_/--' `-'\_) *mE0w* o
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'Anada is cat-friendly..o*`
Sometimes I say things that I only think for a second in my entire
life. Do you know what I mean? My brain will bubble up some hideous
idea, and rather than wish it away or sing Britney Spears songs really
loud to annihilate it, I grab it by the ankle and worry it like a yappy
dog. I try to extrude the meat and marrow from thoughts with no
solidity, to make a meal out of vapor and discontent, and then I serve
it up in some form or another, its mangled stumps covered with discreet
little turns of phrase, the way they put those little bootie things on
the legs of a cooked turkey. No man is an island, no one creates in a
vacuum, and that's especially true for the grubby attention-seekers
among us, the ones who write a limerick on a cocktail napkin and hoist
it like Betsy Ross's flag for the whole world to lob spitballs at.
Sometimes the stuff I write feels more sicked up than crafted ñ I
spit it out like the dog hacks up something bad in the yard, and with just
about the same amount of dignity. It might be something I once felt,
and now wholeheartedly DON'T feel, but I thought of a clever turn of
phrase when I was in the grip of this temporary psychosis, so how can I
waste that? It might be an extrapolation, a demented train of thought
that springs from a sad situation ñ I actually have the outline written
for a screenplay about twin sisters who sexually manipulate and
sometimes murder a host of male suitors, all sprung from one offhand
comment an ex-girlfriend (who happens to have a twin sister! who is an
awesome person! who wouldn't harm half a fly!) made once in an email.
Maybe what I do with this stuff is wrong. Maybe turning these
unpleasant, bizarre or just plain gross mental meanderings into
black-and-white words on paper is perverted and obscene! Perhaps they
should be buried like toxic waste, or allowed to dissipate into whatever
ether undocumented thoughts drift into. But I've always been a pack
rat, I can't throw away fucking bread ties ñ how can I toss out
something my brain actually created, even if it was in the grip of
booze, heartbreak, indigestion or sleep deprivation at the time?
I don't know how this whole writing game works for anyone else, but
for me, getting this stuff on paper feels like the only proper way to get it
out of my head ñ keeping it in there is not an option, there's just too
much damn clutter in there already. But even if it's something I jot
down just so I don't have to dwell on it any more, or have it pop into
my head like the chorus of a bawdy song at the most inappropriate times,
it seems right and proper to document it ñ sort of giving a decent
burial, with a memorial, to a lot of malformed, premature, mentally
diseased thoughts that didn't stand a chance in the real world.
Calling Doctor Carrion ñ we've got another patient to lose, another
stillbirth to attend to. Get it over quick, do it with style, and try
to leave a classy monument, because that's the only good outcome of this
one. Doctor Carrion loses every patient, but he puts on some hellacious
funerals.
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( o.o ) (c) Anada e'zine anada393 by Infernal o
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