The verge of moving

posted by jeremy on May 14, 2005

is a difficult monster, hard to nail down what to do next, how to do it. Still, something has come clear in the last few days... I came here, to this city, to write something, something big & fine... & now a sudden urgency has come over me & I know, it's time, time, goddam time. The words are there, just find them, dig them up, scratch them down, bind them into the shape that has been there all along, waiting.

I've been reading Mao 2 by Don DeLillo over the last few days & the clarity of it, the scope of its intent, to dig beneath the interplay of the reader, the writer, the terrorist, the photographer, the mind, the body... It is truly fucking stunning.

"The loneliness of voices stored on tape. By the time you listen to this, I'll no longer remember what I said. I'll be an old message by then, buried under new messages. The machine makes everything a message, which narrows the range of discourse and destroys the poetry of nobody home. Home is a failed idea. People are no longer home or not home. They're either picking up or not picking up. The truth is I don't feel awkward. It's probably easier to talk to you this way. But that's not why I'm calling. I'm calling to describe the sunrise."

Every single line leaves me inspired, hopeful & horrified, scared to begin what I'm about to. I'm not afraid of total failure, page-blank-block... but of total & utter mediocrity. That is the abyss, the boogeyman that has held me from putting pen to page, finger to keyboard, file burned to disk.

Yet fuck it, I'm gonna start this big ugly beast, try to make it breathe.