I have the task of recording life.
Scribbling while living. Jotting. Transcribing. Taking in everything I can…so much gets lost in translation. So many details dribble from my lips. So many messages drip from my chin. Split between participating and observing, I sometimes get lost…
Some experiences elude me and I’m left asking, “What just happened?” My senses: overwhelmed. My creative process: abandoned. I scramble to gather the pieces. Nothing connects. Nothing works. Nothing fits in a linear sequence of thought.
How do I write about gaining consciousness to the sound of Ennio Morricone humming through my speaker? Where do I begin, when the first thing I remember was eating semen off the soles of another man’s feet? How do I describe the familiar flavor which I knew to be my own seed? How do I make sense of his tears falling from his eyes, rolling down my naked thighs?
He was so moved. I was entranced. Neither of us was drunk or high, but sex shifted our consciousness. I could feel his fingers probing deep inside of me. I could feel my throat struggling to swallow all that I have planted. I could feel his lungs rattling, he couldn’t stop crying.
I have the task of editing life.
Segmenting while living. Erasing. Rearranging. Trying to make my reality realistic…so much ends up on The Cutting Room's floor. I validate my truth using lies as a medium. I write fiction to trick people into reading my autobiography. Split between being the author and character, I sometimes get lost.
|"Bas Fonds" by Errikos Andreou & Al Giga (Featuring Sasha Marini)|