WRITING IS THE LEADING CAUSE OF THERAPY
Is it drafty in here? — are my pants down again?
Write — right?
Ideas
Am I right?
My drafts folder is where my brain takes a dump.
I have too many drafts in my drafts folder. Organizationally, it’s a fucking nightmare. I have a document I have in my Drive of ideas. I take what I have managed to write down throughout the day and put them into one centralized location.
When I look at it, I think I just might be able to construct a story just out of ideas from my drafts folders — not expounding upon any of them — just cutty and pastey and publish-y.
Here we go — Bathroom & kitchen psychology. The art of animal-fat body massage. The weight of the world — each responsibility physically sits on the author. Fictional award — along the lines of New Zealand’s Golden Sheers. What makes a B-movie? The existential turmoil of the mime. Cow Assassin. Invasion of the Body Snatchers — re: gaslighting. Me getting in trouble as a kid — except I’m Trump. Neo Futurists.
Looks fruitless, but I have come up with twice the amount of those.
Let’s try freewriting. It’s said you get your best ideas by letting go and writing whatever comes to mind.
Freebird!
My freewriting:
I knocked on the door and entered without an invitation from inside. I’m normally early for everything. You know how when someone is habitually late and someone buys them or suggests the need for a watch? Friends bought me one because I would show up two hours prior to shindigs.
The man didn’t even give me a chance to sit down. “Why don’t you just say you found her doped out of her mind with her bare crotch straddling a dead fetus?”
“Dead fetus? You mean like that one over there?” I replied, pointing behind me.
He looked over into the dark corner, speechless.
“The one talking to the flamingo in an eyepatch in the garden of pink cupcake tins?” I continued.
“It’s because of that fetus and flamingo on the pink-cupcake-tin garden that I will be voting for her,” he replied as if they were something of which to be proud.
“The flamingo?”
“The flamingo, yes,” he said flabbergasted as if I would think of anyone else. “She’s taken a hard stance against people who fold back their pages instead of using a bookmark. It’s unconscionable and we need to come down hard on those heathens.”
“You have to give them a chance though. If you make this election about dogeared pages, the more important issues become lost,” I said.
“Like wha — Dogeared?” his voice boomed. “Dogeared!? Dogeared is what you would call a man walking down the street in a perfectly normal suit who happens to be wearing dogears! Bent pages — ”
“Don’t you see? When you make anything about a particular issue — once you chain something up with a label or a title — it loses all its aesthetic value,” I replied.
“Words.”
“What?”
“Words — by your logic, words have lost all value. Once we ‘labeled’ that first utterance, words lost their meaning. In fact, our very utterances are derivative of that very first thought assigned a noise to be put out into the world.”
“Now you’re just — ”
“Begone!”
“Come on — I — ” I pleaded.
“I said be gone!”
Once again, I had been kicked out of my own mind. Pretty soon, I wouldn’t be allowed into the meetings at all.
Ummm —
I need to go call my therapist.
Find me elsewhere. I know, I know — you want me in your inbox. You can read more if you just click here.
Want to join Medium to read this and thousands of other pieces? Go here with my referral link.
