I have lost my writing ability. This that I am doing is a mechanical exercise, a transferring my mental ideas to my fingers, which are moving to put together typographic figures, hoping to open the mist of reality and its deep intricacies on a paper sheet. What I am really doing, instead of that, is to repeat clichés irredeemably, like “the mist of reality”, “deep intricacies”, and write about paper sheets when is a fact that I do not even use it anymore. Hardly to print, and even so. Then comes this whole wide-open space where you stay exposed by repeating yourself until the nausea. “Until the nausea”, another literary cliché. And the cliché of the cliché, of course. Then the only thing left is talking about yourself, and about this “self” that you are, wanting to be what you are not. No. It was not like this. But that is the idea, as someone said. The repetitiveness. The decayed lexicon of the language, of its insufferable common places.
But that is just an excuse, actually. The excuse of one who has lost his writing ability. And we have to be emphatic and honest, for that matter. “For that matter”, very academic and linguistically accurate, uncountable volumes of for that matter. I use them more now, the academic argot (though I am not very sure if that is the right expression in this case), and I compose better than years ago, though years ago I wrote better than now. Before now, “the mist of the reality” was opened, even though the imperfect grammar. Maybe even thanks to it, precisely. I did not use a lot of commas, for instance. Now, instead, comma this, comma that. A clockwork of accurateness. And yet, about writing, what is called writing, nothing.
It is not even about the common places, truth be told (“in point of fact”, another option, or “truly, truly, I say to you”, if it did not sound that fossil), but the ability of rewrite them. Every language have no more than a very limited amount of words and possibilities of combination, and if on top of that we add the narrow cultural horizon that is due to everyone of us, we should be more than a Mandrake the Magician to take out from the hat another creature than a rabbit, or something similar at least. Taking out a different thing, a penis, for instance, would be very odd, though it would cause the desired effect, an astonishing feeling of “novelty”, which finally would be the poor relative, very poor by perverted, of creativity, where all creative work is placed, and the writing as well. And, (comma) of course, the penis comes to the figure put at an opportune moment (cheers), because it would represent the desperate resource (replace a rabbit, a common place, for a penis, a place supposedly “novel”, in context) of one who has admitted his creative failure. After that comes the vaginas, and there you have “The Vagina Monologues” as a sample. The more vaginas and penis, the better, and the show must go on. We have to fill the hollow. That is why the pornography has flourished in the current circumstances in our culture. Not even the pornography, precious common place of the art, when the art can rewrite it, but the pornography of the pornography itself.
That is why I do not say to you goodbye, my friends. I say cock. And may the (in)decency be always with you.