Write and Wrong

Sometimes I wonder why do I write at all? Why bother? Nobody reads my blogs when I DO write more than likely… I have no publishers and editors and all those fancy things… this has turned me into a lazy writer. I guess I write because I have to write. I am good at it… No, I am better than good.. I am fucking magnificent at it. Words can pour out of me like a tidal wave that drowns you, suffocates you, washes you away in my stories, only to drop you sodden and half drowned at the end, wondering what the fuck just happened. My words are opiate… they can intoxicate you until you stumble forth from them in a hazy hungover stupor. I can effectively mold and shape the English language into a poetic splendor that can brings tears to your eyes, or make you so fucking mad you want to throw your computer against the wall. Words are my bitch… words are my scepter… words are my sword. I embrace and indulge myself in the power of prose. But what’s the point? Why should I expend my strength to share these things with people who care little to nothing about reading? Why, when I am riding in my car, is my mind filled with sentences I want to write? Why, when I ride my bike, does the wind blow thoughts of sentences that capture that exact moment into my mind, only to be forgotten at the next signal light? The scent of asphalt only tortures me to write and write and write… And I am a sadist who cannot lay this torture aside. Last night, I sat in a chair at an afterparty after a huge toy run… it was attended by hardcore bikers… Sons of Silence, Bandidos… I am preening like Vivien Leigh at a bar b que.. ‘your hair is gorgeous”…” I love your boots… ‘ Tell us if you need anything”… I got a badass joint in each hand and a stack of jello shots. And all along I am only thinking how I want to write about how much I love biker clubhouses. The music changes my heart beat… There is the scent of barbecue and beer and leather and perfume and highway and pot. There’s old signs hanging on the walls…. They are all different and all the same… The girls are all subservient but giggly and happy… The fact that I am surrounded standing room only with patch upon patch makes me feel a comfort like nowhere else on earth. . A couple hours in a smoky room ensconced deeply into this leather and chrome world, this beautifully tragic world so misunderstood, does more for me than any drug on earth. In a few hours Jasmine will introduce me from stage.. she will sing TO me. I will feel the wind of her hair as she flings her head back and forth rocking their worlds. I will feel her spit and her sweat shower onto my skin… but I will stand firm in front of her like a brick wall… if anything goes wrong, it will have to go through me to get to my friend. I watch her sing and want to write the passion in her voice, the energy in her arms, the fire in her eyes. I want to write about the stripper after Jasmine’s concert. I want to write how degrading it seems to me to earn a living rubbing your crotch on the faces of drunken men and licking the nipples of saggy tits on overweight slobberingly inebriated women, one dollar bill at a time. Even when I fuck my husband I want to immediately get up and write about the feel of my silk pajama sleeve whispering down my arm… how he will rub his whiskers back and forth on my throat, how I breathe in the scent of his clean white t-shirt with a leftover hint of good cologne. I write in my mind unconsciously very much the same way my lungs fill with oxygen… I don’t necessarily WANT to write. Its something inborn within my very soul, something that gnaws at me and causes my heart to bleed like a lost lover if I am denied the pleasure, or pain, it offers me.  You don’t like what I write? Fuck what you like. Sometimes I don’t like it either. All I can say is, you should see the stuff I DON’T say.

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4 Responses to “Write and Wrong”

  1. tidesfalls Says:

    Followed a link over from Rebel’s place. Your honesty makes me uncomfortable, but the writing is alluring. Keep doing what you do.
    -Tidesfalls

  2. the Wicked Bitch Says:

    my honesty makes a lot of people uncomfortable.

  3. Your writing is a gift. It immortalizes everything you are and all you’ve seen and done. You HAVE to write. It is an art that must continue..to lay still for years undiscovered, only to be recovered years later like a golden treasure by those that wished they could live the way you did, and leave the legacy that you will when you’re gone. Write on, write on.

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