a blind mans blueprint
From Wasserman's 'Templars and Assassins':
"Did I not wish the sultan well, that dagger that was stuck in the hard ground would have been planted in his soft chest" Hassan I Sabbah.
"The Assassins became the the dark embodiment of the shadow self of Islam"
There was only one thing for it; finish the thing. Get it done, get my head back.
Somewhere in between the words my character was robbing the banks of eternity and using my identity to do it.
"And this shall be deducted from your part of heaven"
200 words to go.
I still have 200 words to go but I'm a little less absorbed. There is a small corner of my head reserved for nuthink. When it comes to my reflective commentary, I'll have to say: I don't know how long this took. I don't remember which exercises I did, or in what order. I've lost count of the hours and drafts and days. I'll have to blame time-warps, muses, angels and aliens. I wonder what will happen when i start on the autobiography module :-/ "well, there was this big spaceship... the idea that Earth is itself a stargate...my meeting with a Lovecraftian alien, the money launderer, almost being shot....my grand-father being a gun runner, my grand mother a prostitute....the suffering of my parents....living in at least two different realities at once.....inventing demons to bring join the dots for me...." Blah. Blah. Blah. Can I get away with that?
Then i can start talking about systematically executing my friends one by one just because I could. About actually, beneath it all, being very alone if not lonely. The burden of dream. The burden of vision. The burden of imagination. Well, that could lead to my blabbing about how i become a tongue tied douche bag when i talk to people who've felt what i've felt and been where i've been, or at least who have felt similar things or been to similar places, and about the selfishness of my need for people to hear me.
Suppose I could dig up some value in exploring what it is to have greater understanding/intuition than skill, and greater intelligence than skill, and how it drives so many people to drink and drugs and sex with lampposts. I could...write about a character who does not knowing who they are. Who doesn't know why they're here, or what they want. About being divorced from an innate and primal connection to the continuing process of unfolding creation, the hells and high waters and advertising to be crossed in reconnecting with IT, and the beauty of the stars at night when the sea is still and no one needs to say a word.. Yeah, I like that last idea.
That's what I want to write about, and forget "Ultimate Soldiers" who have amnesia, or Vanilla Sky/Matrix characters who wake up in a box; I want the the actual condition to come through in my work. It's a tough thing to do.....a tough thing to do.......make no mistake......if I'm frying my brain and being an arse its because I'm carving David with a spoon.
I just wish in my heart of hearts, at times like this when the work is almost done and i'm sat typing my reflections at my desk, that there was someone who was also carving David with a spoon to talk to. But I have you, my loyal words, and maybe you'll be enough yet.
I'm going to sleep without sheets tonight, out of a rebellion against keeping up appearances and because my skin wants to feel the prickles of my mattress.
There is the possibility that I will need a new approach next month. In fact, it's almost a certainty. I've played my hand at the fantastical, but it doesn't feel enough. I need the prickles of my mattress.
Ah, but, you know what. All of this is always in my writing. Everything from the Dreams to the Seeking to the poverty and heartache and ordinary suffering of ordinary people. Why else would the superhero I come up with be the dreaming-self of the protagonist, and why else would the protagonist be an ordinary guy in a world of illusion.
And, hold on a minute - for the last month I've been writing a single monologue, a monologue about dream detached from the body. No wonder I'm half way to the moon.
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