silverrevolver

I am about to undertake a massive editing, cutting and rewriting of the first five pages of my self indulgent novel. I couldn't sleep last night and I lay awake, heart racing, thinking about my lost passport, reliving old jelousys. In the process of forcing myself to sleep (finger still bleeding from an unhappy accident with a bread knife, rustic Italian bread be damned!) I reworked the beggining and wrote the next three sections in my head. I woke this morning with the pillow looking like I had been slaughtering chickens (or virgins) and as I was starting the laundry and re-dressing my wound I decided that no one gets to read my work untill my intent is clear as day. Those of you who have read it seem to still be missing the point (to my discredit as an author). I forget that I have this grand arc in my head, one that can't be seen in the first ten pages -- a dual character evolution (the narrator evolves and changes as he reflects upon this reckless time that changed him, fuzzy dishonest voice becoming clear and honest as he remembers her), and the cleansing tragedy, like the fisrt rain at the end of a parched, dusty summer; cleansing. I feel it in me and it's only begging to ooze out, like the bursting of a blemish. I feel an explosion soon.

I am also remembering how careful I have to be in this medium of communication, I have to remember to not build people I don't yet know into a fantasy (something easy to do). I have become the consumate writer, trying to read many levels in every action taken (in life and in electric life), and however clever and accurate my insight often is, perception is always an imposition of will on the world (an often vain endeavor).

I spent Sunday listening to Dylan's blues trilogy from beggining to end, and I am amazed by his dry humor. The three albums, to me are a chronichle of the healing process: from the self indulgent misreble depressing (but utterly sexy) "Time out of Mind" to the reflective, cynical "Love and Theft" to a series of homages to his musical heros, and a humorous awknowledgement of his own ridiculousness on "Modern Times". The latter ends with "Ain't Talkin" which hearkens back to the first volume of the trilogy, "still walkin'" where he realizes that the healing process, or the process of becoming if you will is eternal, all you can do is change your perspective. I'll end with a lyrical example of the humor I mentioned earlier.