It seems like nothing... surviving, wandering, pissing, eating, breathing, hearing, seeing.
I'm looking for a form containing forms; very unformed forms; not deformed but possibly malformed. Anything too shaped, in the present context, would seem to me inadequate, useless and obsolete.
Forms in which writing would become a free act despite the inescapable constraint of submitting to the desire to express, to explore who we are.
Forms in which I, and perhaps others who might find a way, could breathe another air; an invented air. An air that offers breathing not just a mechanical gesture. An air that makes breathing conscious of its movement. An air that occupies a vast area where one can also cry, without shame, without justification, for the pleasure of doing so and of relieving oneself. An air on a motorway service area where one comes to relieve oneself in the undergrowth on the side of the road. Where you park yourself for a change of air and pee and nibble while enjoying the clear sky, watching the concrete go by. On the sidewalks, you can remake the world to your own ideas. Or no idea at all. No more cultural alibi for finding nature beautiful and cement bad. Everything blends together and it's quiet; engines and birdsong blend together and it's no less quiet than the silence of the woods. These are ours. These are the spaces we have created because in the end we will never again survive in the pure nature of streams and forests. So this is where I want to write; halfway between what is dreamed and what happens. That's where I'm staying, for a pee against the wind and a not so good sandwich. But I don't want to wish for anything better than what the anonymity of a high-speed passageway can offer me. At least I'm not confined to the exchange of good words and the carnage I don't want to experience.
18 November 2015 at 2:00 a.m.
A few words that warm up in this acidic atmosphere. Prostration. Screaming. Closing in on oneself. Running. Thinking. Empty head. Freedom. Prison. Being there. To leave. Staying. Cul-de-sac. ...Then understand and understand nothing when you think, alas, that you have understood everything.