whathappenstous
whathappenstous
| Forum role | Member since | Last activity | Topics created | Replies created |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Member | Jul 9, 2013 (12 years) |
- | 1 | 0 |
- Forum role
- Member
- Member since
Jul 9, 2013 (12 years)
- Last activity
- -
- Topics created
- 1
- Replies created
- 0
Bio
I'm a refugee from the decimated, demi-strafed, burnt-to-the-ground country that used to be journalism (Esquire, Harper's Bazaar, Mademoiselle, McCall's, Psychology Today, the Los Angeles Times, the New York Daily News, et al.). In an effort to make the most of my new country, I've utilized a skill I learned in the old country. Some people call it writing. Others call it getting naked. Others call it bleeding. Others call it making no money. Others just stand back and go, Wow, that's a relic. Writing, that is, not me.
I like to write things that mean something to me emotionally. In fact, I originally defected in part because I was writing things that didn't mean anything to me. I felt that I had become nothing more than a writing machine. You give me a subject, and I drop ball bearings into a machine. What that machine vomits out is called an article.
But I can't stand that kind of writing. I like to excavate moments in my life when the world came crashing down, when I changed forever, when I thought I might not survive. I like to excavate interior movement and unspoken explosions. It's in those moments that you begin to know who you are.
I rise to the occasion.
I follow the right path, even if that takes me into darkness.
If I need it, I have 110% available to me. But using it depletes my bodily fluids and may hasten an early death.
Help! I'm caught in an endless cycle of day! night! day again! night again!
I've written a novel called "What Happens to Us." It is where my soul resides, page after page, in each sentence, in the pauses between the sentences, in the twists, the turns, the extremes, the expansion and contraction of time, the precision or the Sloppy Joeness. It can be heard only if you listen for it.
Download as an ebook here: http://whathappenstous.wordpress.com/2013/07/13/heinrich-mullers-fondest-dream/
I live in Southern California under a rock named suburbia. I exercise until sweat blinds me and my toes begin to curl like those of a brain-damaged child. I lament the death of my grandiose dreams. I visit their graves far too often for my own good. Sometimes, I dig up the corpses at midnight and embrace their dessicated corpses. I give them French kisses.
I perform magic, which is a form of both lying and ecstasy. Some people revel in it, can't get enough, while others, like a 70-year-old woman the other day, say, as she did, "Well, I suppose that some people may find that amusing."
Every response is valid. Every child is gifted. Every evil is within us. Every denial is a wet kiss on the lips of Death.
Sometimes I compare myself to homeless people. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd become a lawyer. Sometimes I envision myself fatter and addicted to fear. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier if I were stupid. Sometimes I wonder if am stupid.
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