And finally...

It's been a long time coming. A few things had cropped up that kept me busy... Work, and then losing my job, and then looking for work, completing bits of prose and poetry, the reading of literature, menial tasks ad infinitum. So on and so on...

Here, then, I've begun to piece together bits that don't belong much else in any other place, but altogether in a motley compilation I've undecidedly titles 'Notes on the Author', because that's all they are: notes on and of. An example follows:

I consider my day; what a waste it’s been. Consuming of my time and money, and my energy- and how- knowing it’s cost me so much, I’m left only the more exasperated. My own furore, combining with the merciless heat, the ever-present noise, the diversions… I had never wanted to leave the house. The signs were against me. And yet…

And yet I persisted in my efforts, trying hard to accomplish something- unfortunately, a something that belied my own instinct and nature. Becoming something else for the preservation of others’ had only proved futile. Much as it always does, and leaves me far from home, sweating now and altogether upset. Where one puts themself so far out of harmony: when there is no equilibrium, there is only chaos; an intimate and minute chaos that entirely dredges one and dampens the soul. In our attempts at becoming, we lose only ourselves.

   But what lies these be… What treachery! Unabated, the torrent of excuses and miserable decries continues without wanting to relinquish the self-torment for truth. What is the truth? That simply, and only, it was the burning in my loins that heated me- that made me rage and make fire upon the page. It was I who stoked my own fires; and its fuel was desire. Wanton lust had made me giddy and when it found no vestige, it burned the pilot, himself, and through his eyes, on fire, he saw the whole world in a blaze.

   What can be said…

Our apartment complex is like a Hellish ground. Some may think that the furthest depths of that Dis-mal place must be wretched for heat, but they be fools for thinking such. The fact is, heat rises, though that’s not to suppose that Paradise, then, must be burning. Oh contraire! I imagine it be wrapped by a cool breeze, but here; in this high hole where we permanently leave all our windows and doors ajar for the wind to travel through like a tourist bus, gratifying passengers along the way. Here- atop the rest of the flats, I feel the warmth embrace me hotter and harder and tighter, the more steps that I climb. Here we try to make something of ourselves, falling privy to idol fancies and fancy fools of idolatry… Here we burn, half naked, in detestable, desolate, dirtiness as we fester in filth. Here, our home is like Hell.