(This blog is often rough thoughts, fragments --freeing for me. It is called Work for a reason. I know it is not made clear, and so much of it is read as finished, why would someone post unfinished writing after all? As a journal, much like the pictures are posted the day they are made, so too the writing for the most part. I do post some finished work, like the MLH play, but for the most part I like putting up the rough stuff, and the reason is it helps me work it through. Thinking about other people reading it tricks me into re-reading it as if it is not mine. I don't get into a bubble with it, and at the same time escape outside influence.
Below is an opening paragraph to recent work that is high on my list. Something I have worked quite hard on. While you might not care to examine the revision, and while my work is not of the high level worthy of inspection, it is maybe a way to show how strange fragment can be culled and fluffed into something. An opening paragraph of a story, the rough draft from July, and the recent revision from tonight -- thanks for reading.)
from jul-28:
This town is a sinking hill, the ocean is its melt. The people live in constellated hamlets around the hill like tribes. In the Summer the water is for the new people. We let them have it. We're low people here, we don't care. We drink at lunch, we drink at supper. We fuck our way illegitimately into each other's families, and cuckold our ex-wives' new husbands. We have socialized the distribution of narcotic to where, be you giver or taker, everyone knows who's veined the season's good shit. In the ghetto, as the King says, the mamas cry; but here mommies are stoic, and politely farsighted, when the boys go to the porch to dust their nostrils. Kids who leave here are forgotten, scratched out of fond record. Not that many do: no one here has it to teach their young how. Kids learn the above mentioned instead. Natural people, preterchristian. Living outside the realm of what you think silly rural people are. We could give fuck all about ocean.
from nov-9:
How to describe this town. This town is sinking down the hill, the ocean is its melt. The people live in constellated hamlets like tribes. We hide. In the Summer the water is for the comers. We're low people here, we don't care. It's not winter, and now is long days to drink at lunch, drink at supper, to screw our way into each other's families, and cuckold our ex-wives' new husbands. Summertime, and up the hill the distribution of narcotic is so comfortable, giver or taker, everyone knows where. In the ghetto, as the King says, the mamas cry, but here mom is politely farsighted when the boys go to the porch to dust their nostrils.
Natural people. Hill folk could give fuck all about ocean.
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