There are multiple ways to write. A few examples: a) you already have the story in your head, pretty much in its entirety (this happens to me sometimes); b) you invent a character, put it somewhere, like a store or a cafe or a gym, and let the character take charge of the story; c) and I just thought of this one, you can discuss a topic that interests you with a friend while recording the conversation. Then listen to it and transcribe your more interesting remarks.
I suppose that last one would be better suited for essay writing.
There’s a documentary on Kenneth Koch on YouTube, and he mentions a technique whereby he just gets behind a typewriter then writes unfiltered. The he goes back and edits — or more like, salvages.
I also read an interview in the book The Essential Allen Ginsberg where Ginsberg advised his writer friends to do like he does if they want to put out a book: go though your journals and pick/choose/edit.
What about who I am or what. I’m not sure how many people think in terms of “what” when they consider their identity, but do you think of “what” often, or is it more like “who?” We might consider a little of both. It seems that the what is more like which labels apply, or what do you feel like in relation to them. And who might be ego or your archived past. I can’t find labels that suit me most of the time. Weirdo maybe. Or unorthodox. Or strange. Politically correct I am unique. Interesting.
I feel like nothing. I have empty inside me but it feels nice. This is the joy of dumbness, or being struck dumb. I am dumb in the face of the mysteries of the universe. I cannot comprehend. I “understand” the universe spiritually but it ends there. Nothing else really registers, though a good Thai meal or a noteworthy cup of coffee or a poem will resonate. Good music like the unplugged jazz I listen to or certain classical music, like Beethoven or Schumann piano pieces or Schubert trios. Chopin and etc.
My house is like a religious house. No one here is religious but it is constantly quiet with us reading or thinking or daydreaming or sleeping or eating. My cat is loud enough to make up for the rest of us.
Her middle-age son was barbecuing near his garage in his apartment complex.
“It brings back memories,” I heard the woman saying.
Her grandson was riding a tricycle back and forth along the garage’s threshold.
As I was leaving to run an errand, I drove by them slowly in my car to show regard for the young boy, and the woman waved to me.
I waved back.
Neighborliness is rare here in transient Las Vegas.
A freight train blows its hard horn (bright horn?) this morning.
I live in the suburbs and I can hear it — me and my cat.
There are tracks running through this town, and from time to time, rail crossings you might encounter unexpectedly, where you have to sit at the red light and wait for the endless line of rail cars.
The standard motor vehicles make just as much noise, anyway. I hear them like static on the receiving end of a phone. Not to mention their smoke.
Then there’s my retired neighbor with his generator that he uses for his pressure washer to clean his yard, where he also has a hot tub, along with a fluorescent blue bug zapper and a flatscreen, as well as a wife who does Zumba.
Oscar Wilde was editor of Woman’s World magazine, 1887-89. He also championed conventional attire for men.
John Lennon wore white. Fashion magazines will sometimes run his pic.
During an interview, a tidily dressed David Bowie did a good rendition of Lennon, voice-wise. It was abrupt but went over well.
Allen Ginsberg played finger cymbals and wore black. Ginsberg had a knack for mantra, and children loved him.
Was William Carlos Williams swallowed up by the forest? (The doctor chuckles as he sinks into the white beyond.) Maybe it was a happy death? Continue reading
A sparkling operatic voice emanating from the 7-Eleven — strong soprano notes.
A woman passing, stunned, looked around her as if someone called her name, or like something she lost long ago was suddenly within walking distance.