Sunday, March 2, 2008

Writers.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore.

It's boring.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore.
I don't want to hear,
what's right or wrong in what we write.

The only person I want to know about,
is the guy in the mountains,
in his studio,
fists full of clay,
making...I don't know...
urns or something.

And he paints a sign,
that he sticks at the end of his drive,

LOCAL CRAFT. CERAMIC URNS

on the highway,
selling,

maybe one a year, to someone who bothers to stop.

Or the Grandmother,
on her little property,
who just
loves her garden,
loves her dog,
loves the magpies'
morning song
which inspires her
as she feeds them,

or as they feed themselves
on fallen fruit from her trees.

I want to know about her.

I want to know that she loves...

macrame,

or taking some glue and some shells
and sticking them on a mirror,
and sending things,
uninvited,
to her grandchildren,
who probably fucking laugh,
and stash her creations in the shed,
or in a cupboard,

and she knows that,
she fucking knows that
but that doesn't matter,
because she's happy to make
and happy to give

it's her damn thing,

and her grandchildren,
well,

they just miss the point.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore,
and who thinks what about what,
or have you read my shit,
or that I should read yours.

That's not what it's about.

It's about
your shit,
my shit,

and we

read shit and
blew shit,
and felt shit
and threw shit

and I'm being me
and you're being you
and what the fuck does it matter
if people have an opinion on
that.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore.
Or anything.
I don't want to talk about anything anymore.

You know?

If we're going to be writers,

then let's,

like,

run along a beach,
into the wind,
as the sun breaks the clouds,
as you squeeze my hand,
as the waves crash beside us,
as the whole world disappears
into the colours -
oh man the colours -
the colours of the rocks
that's all that matters,
that we're in the colours,
that we're on the beach,
that we are here now,
that words mean nothing
that everything's alive
and
that it's all going to pass

layers in the rocks,
bones in the sand,

take my hand
take my hand,
let's just run, baby, run

and write about it
some other time.

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