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.
