I write for the sake of getting by, my every right to try, struggling to make sentence-meat, hanging rib-eye steak debates and words taste great for coffee table conversationalists that arrive early and leave late. I start off upright, succumb to not right, trophic, planned on company or going out but couldn’t get up, another fall. I’d rather be outside or near instead of rooted here, someplace else entirely, living like I use to when falling down was funny before it got so serious. But writing is two-edged, double board certified often less, solitary and sedimentary, more about cutting to the quick, all this-this than not that.
It gets easier except when it don’t, easier to say than to make it pay, coming undone by far the weightiest to the well and ill alike. So I pretend to be there or someone else entirely, writing to save myself or just let go in the big white space empty, our absent togetherness, absently to tell anybody what nobody knows – that writing saves the soul from the terrible cold of lasting anonymity, mundanity, saves the roll call of another fall to begin, when, this one ends and another one shivs in.
I write to get away with make-believe dreaming and broken remembering, faulty harp strings and elevator door swings for the sake of getting by, my every right to die, struggling to make sensory observations of social deprivations, all this writing trying to make it about the artfulness of alternatives, talking about writing about it, here.