antinovelist confession

Sometimes one may wish to produce something more substantial. Like a novel, preferably. Fiction, maybe.

Alas maybe one would be inclined toward vague cursory reflections, like some sort of performance act, except the profile of the character is all but missing. And it can’t be any other way.

Unless it’s shifting first and second and third person(s), unless it’s entirely selfish and cowardly while dangling a mask all the same, it’s hard to write any other way. Only recently did it make sense as to why, at least.

To watch clips of No Country For Old Men and feel a little nauseous. It could have been any movie, whatever clip chosen, though especially these more “critically acclaimed” motion pictures… and you can’t stand it anymore.

Can’t stand how it detaches one from day-to-day existence. Just can’t stand it anymore. Don’t want to watch it. Can’t care.

Because after walking out of the movie theatre or virtual or living room personal, everything is the exact same. A still-frame everywhere one walks, of those polaroids so romanticized when they first came out til tinted and washed. Maybe AI animated and laughing before tossed.

Not just movies, but novels at times unfortunately. One could read The Moviegoer which even highlights the sort of dredge and gurgling nonsense that borders most conversations and works of art and try to not think about too much, but one may no longer handle it when you adopt the same affliction.

Same affliction: to want things that have blood in it. A real, visceral evidence of suffering and reality. Get the closest to feeling alive, detailing life, in a reproducible, realistic way. In a non dopamine-chasing way. Some reflective pursuit of the strange existence we’re all locked in.

It’s hard to get blood inside fiction. Besides, it seems fiction only gets blood by the excavation of living, of a residue extracted from the excess of it. Where one is drenched in the daily movements and so commentary flows and dreamt commentary follows.

In our era there doesn’t seem to be a living-river to draw, and a dry bed taunted. Perforated landing strips and destinations designated with a concrete wall to pose against. To live artificial lives and realities; yes, the commute to the office has already been rehashed and drawn over obsessively and to death.

In such a deserted plane who wouldn’t rather make their own fountain of blood and leave a trail? Even if it destroys it may stave and nourish. For however long this lasts.

Condemned to keep an anemic outlet, and perhaps you’ve found your own. One may notice a lot of the web is flushed with scars and crimsoned, crystal, best conserved in a morbid, blue-lit radiation. And it isn’t anything to complain about.

A death march of the mind, when you are fending off whispers of what it meant to live years past.

An individualized abyss, for whoever is curious of what’s next.