Thu, 19 May 2005

sick in the mouth
The only way I can remember anything is by writing about it, and whenever I write about something I polish it a bit, switch things around, and tell preposterous lies. Now, when I go back and read such things, everything I want to pretend actually happened is true and everything I want to pretend never happened isn’t. Nobody ever has to cop to anything because there’s a certain ambiguity about everything, particularly as the only people who would ever call me on it either would never know the strict literal truth or else will no longer speak to me.

I suspect you have to live most of your life in your head for this plan to work.

1992.

“That’s exactly the sort of thing I mean, you call someone a whore and obviously that’s not, it’s not a nice thing or not nice I mean that’s derogatory, right, but you call someone a pimp and it’s like some kinda compliment. But that’s all backwards and even opposite of how that should go, because a pimp, that’s totally worse, and that’s the kind of thing I mean when I say you’re a pimp.” “What?” “I read that zine you do, I’m probably the only person who reads that thing but I read it and I read what you wrote about me. What the fuck?” “You? That’s not about you. That’s a totally different thing.” “The fuck it is! You think just because you changed the name from Heather to whatever it was that somehow I wouldn’t see through your elaborate ruse, I mean, that’s totally about me and you didn’t even tell me about it and that’s pretty fucked up. I mean you’re a pimp in, like, you take all these personal things and you go peddle your apples to fucking whoever and that’s supposed to be okay because you’re a *writer*, oooooh.” “Okay, wait, wait. First, I state again for the record that none of that is about you, and if there’s a couple little details that are kinda similar it’s only so I can give the rest of it a kind of um bit of reality of what really happened, like details you make people believe it because it happened.” “Little details? That whole story about when I was eight with that guy, that whole thing, you even used like the way I talked about it and just put it in your stupid story that didn’t even make sense, with your fucking dramatic turning around like that even makes sense.” “Second, I can’t just draw a line in the sand and say okay, all these things are things I can’t write about because they happened with other people and god fucking forbid I should ever mention anything even remotely similar to things that actually took place and not only that but I *know* you read Angel of Mercy because we talked about it before and you said you read it and if I remember right you said you read it before you even met me over at John’s that one time.” “You dick! I met you in Rhetoric before I met you at John’s and I bet if you wrote that in some fucking story you’d remember that. I’m so sick of your bullshit.” “But what you don’t even appreciate or understand is whether you believe it or not I actually change *everything* in those stories and even when I include things they’re so changed that it’s like, like I think of it like on top of my memories? Like an imprint? And so thinking I’d remember something because I wrote it in a story is ridiculous because I’d remember the story and then I would remember everything wrong.” “You mean like us.” “FUCK! FUCK! I said I was sorry about the fucking story and I’m fucking sorry and fuck.” “Story? You and I went out twice, the one time after that art class when we got lunch and the one time when you stayed over at my dorm room and we were supposed to study for that test but we went to that stupid party and you didn’t even try to kiss me so I went to sleep and then that next week you called me up all fucked up on LSD and were creepy and I gave the phone to someone else and then you never called me again.” “What?” “That’s what actually happened, and all this invented history about us and how we went out that semester that you wrote as a story and then wrote as another story and then you made yourself think it was mostly true, not totally true because you wouldn’t believe that but more true than the truth because with you the truth is always bullshit.” “Okay, stop. Stop talking for a second.” “And it wasn’t just that one thing, it’s everything, you tricked yourself into thinking all that shit with Jenna was different and so you felt bad about pimping memories that weren’t even real and you’d talk to her and there’s the dissonance because it’s like you’re reading off a different script. And just everything. You fucking spectator.” “I’m not talking about this any more. I’m done listening.” “And we’re actual real people. I mean you’ll never see me again but I’m a real person and I don’t need this shit. And the real people who are actually still in your life? Did you ever think about how uncomfortable and just awful that must be, to have someone take the things you said to them and did with them and then not only change everything around but then pretend like that’s how it really happened? “I’m walking out the door. I’m out in the hallway. I’m almost at the stairs.” “This is why you’re so scared all the time! This is why you can’t sleep! This is why you feel so alone all the time! Everything’s a do-over until there’s nothing left to do over! You’re thirtyone years old and you can’t do this anymore!” “Then Heather said ‘But you’re just being clever. Like in that book.’” “But you’re just — stop it!” “And then Heather said ‘Because you can say anything you want. A writer can say anything they want and it’s okay because it’s not real.’” “Because you can say no you can’t say anything, I mean you can but it’s not like it doesn’t, there’s meanings and the audience and people know what you say and it’s okay because it’s not real.” “And then Darren made a smartassed comment about too much writer’s workshop and that’s as close to a real ending as he ever gets.” “Something like that.” “Mostly. Kinda. It’s ambiguous like that.”
(12:25.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #