Because El feels like writing

How do I put words to this gossamer thing within, permanently stationed and cautiously building; to call it intelligence would be wildly inaccurate though in a boomerang way not off the mark. How can I tell you the rush of life that I feel when a book can sing for you, teach you, inspire writing of its own, how constricting is a novel? How many permutations exist to be able to write on? What will mine be like? How will it read?

I’ll dispense with filial references for the time being, will refrain from stringing together millennia of me in the making, of genes that swam down, of wars that tore them apart, of whatever little of destiny that brought them here and by whatever chance I was born. How can I explain to you my vagina skipping a beat by a stimulated scene, by something that’s not actually happening, that didn’t ever happen but is simply one persons imagining. There’s a cycle, an unhealthy repetition of taking winter clothes out and putting them back in, again and again, and in the night, it’s simple why I lie awake, because it’s alone time, there’s the whoosh, of distant planes landing, of retreating truck horns and I try to think of the driver, what he must be thinking of and I fail miserably exposing my pathetic bourgeois-ness, my lack of adventure, of all creature comforts that have surrounded me and danced along all the way. I try to imagine my own novel, my writerly life and my fame, but what will that get me? Do we become famous when we appear on t-shirts? Will there ever be a night, a time when I won’t have to watch late night television with low volume or tip toe around, will I ever be able to make as much noise as I want? Women who wear sleeveless on a cold new year night, or any other for that matter, what must they be thinking and why do they do that? What are they trying to attract? How do they summon the courage, the attractiveness to spell out their charms? It’s something I couldn’t ever do. I find cold a tawdry partner, an unworthy opponent, it’s best to be tackled with a fireplace or a slightly more modern and utterly unromantic heater. I want nothing to do with writing really, I wish it would get lost.

Crossing continents and two men swing tennis racquets, hitting, hitting, fighting, fighting. What shall I do? Do I need to be there? Do I need to go check? See that those monuments, those castles are for real? Not really. I believe you, and my senses have been humbled, numbed even. I think of another woman, so benign, so banal so toxically boring, but saying it doesn’t mean anything, you have to meet her.

I tread another path in my virgin shoes, talking to boys at night and the intimacy that creates, the possibilities it lays out. We’re all in it for the experience right? In an ‘anything can happen’ mood? Looking for stories to tell and that’s at the back of my mind which has a lot to do with my lack of inhibition. But I keep my eyes firmly on the exit gates - simply because, but I’ve changed though, and I’ve noticed the hysterical edge is off my voice when I talk to him. So it goes I suppose..