I need to stop being so sexist. Yesterday three female writers spoke before our class and I could not get past the fact that they were women. I’m not sexist; I just think most women are not as smart as men. I should not stop typing. There is no reason for my hands to stop moving. There is a dialogue in my head at all times. No wonder it gets hard to type when I think about what to type. No more thinking. No more planning. Just straight stream of consciousness that can be edited later.
I thought about going for a bike ride today. I thought about getting some form of exercise. Everything in my story must be relevant. I think about what I am and I feel disappointed and sad. There is no good reason for me to feel like this. I don’t know what my problem is with women. I think I am intimidated by them. It is intimidating to be one of the only straight males in my writing arts classes. Although I kind of enjoy the idea of me being in the minority, the idea of me overcoming the odds. Right now a smart woman is breaking through to her mentally challenged student while I am thinking about mad science.
It’s very interesting to see what people post on facebook. This kid that has tourettes syndrome posts all this new wave stuff. He added “lightworker” to his name and recently he’s posting videos about “indigo starseeds.” I googled “starseed” and a bunch of…I’m not sure what to call them, believers, people who believe it, websites came up. I researched “indigo starseed wiki” and opened the page. It says that starseed “is fictional life forms in Larry Niven’s Known Space science fiction series. I think this stuff is kind of like that cult that Tom Cruise is in. I just googled “that cult that tom cruise is in.” Oh yeah, scientology.
Things like this scare me. I wonder what really goes on inside of the minds of the authors of this stuff. Why do they do it, for power? This is why I want to be a writer. I want to write something that showcases my power. I want to empower. But isn’t that the same as what these cult leaders want to do? I’m not sure. I need to keep writing and not think about what I am writing or why. Yesterday I was drawing cartoons stream of consciousness. I am thinking about Steven King comparing writing to mental telepathy. I wish I could just think a novel into existence. From now on I will simply think this novel into existence with my typing as a side product.
Yesterday I failed a linguistics test because I didn’t study. I didn’t study because I didn’t like the teacher. She is an old woman that likes to talk about herself. She also believes in a woman who claims to speak to dead animals. I wish I could speak to dead animals. I wish I could speak to living animals. I wish I could telecommunicate with living and dead animals. I do not believe that she has the ability to speak to animals living or dead. In class one day I said “she claims to be an animal psychic.” The teacher said “No, she claims to be an animal communicator.” I said “I don’t think there is any difference.” She said “There is a difference” so I dropped the subject. I didn't want to argue.
If you claim to telepathically speak to the spirits of dead animals you are a psychic. I don’t care who you are. What does that even mean? I need to stop beginning sentences with “I need to.” The problem with writing stream of consciously is that there is no structure. Just like Pencilsgurlyna. Its how little kids write. I guess I still write like a little kid. I guess that’s better than writing like a grown up scientist or a lawyer or something. I need to get up and close the window, my feet are getting cold. I wonder how long I can keep writing for. I’m getting a little hungry but the coffee is still working.
Miss Pencilgurlyna is a story written by a little girl named Kassidy. It is meta. Kassidy writes “Cut, cut, cut” as if she is the director of the story. I drink too much beer. I need to stop. I am beginning to get a beer belly. This is a very rambling tone. I just thought about the Batona trail. Last summer my friends and I camped out in our secret spot. I should write a story about going out there. I am packing my truck with my backpack. Tomorrow I leave for the Batona trail.
Today I thought about Facebook. All these people are getting engaged. It’s weird. Last summer (or two summers ago) I was trying to have sex with this blonde girl with fake breasts. I feel like someone from my generation would use the term “bang.” I never got to see them though. I think I might have felt them once while sleeping in her bed. Although I never saw them before the surgery, I’m pretty sure they were much nicer before the procedure. Now she is engaged to this kid that lives right down the street from her parents house. Well, his parents house is right down the street from her parents house. Everyone lives with their parents these days. I imagine in the future if you are unhappy with your life you'll just get a head transplant. After you get a head transplant you will retain your sense of self but at the same time become an entirely different person. Then I thought of science fiction where they switch people’s heads and sew them back on.
I entered the forest. It was a partly cloudy day with periods of intense sunshine followed by intense darkness. The smell of honeysuckle mixed with the sight of wild blueberries was tweeting at me. Birds were tweeting. They were not on twitter though. I must hold back from editing this. Keep forging on into the wilderness of my brain. I brought my banjo with me and I played it as I walked and thought. I thought about the new wave stuff again. I’ve seen plenty of shooting stars in my life but never an alien craft. Perhaps I’ll see one out here in the woods. My computer needs a fan under it or it will overheat. It is like a crutch of technology. My smart phone died when it got wet last summer. Now I use one of my old cell phones. It’s a flip phone. It doesn’t have a qwerty keyboard so it’s really time consuming to text.
The other day I had a conversation with my girlfriend about America. I don’t think they should just give high school graduates college loans. At the same time I am thinking “how can I think this?” I’m complaining because I got the chance to go to college using the government’s money. People all around the world suffer under oppressive governments and I have the nerve to say that I don’t think high school students should get loans. There is something up with it. There is some ulterior motivation. My generation is self entitled. I want to be the first person to write a novel that encapsulates my generation. I said “time is running out before someone else writes that novel.” This is a good ideology I told myself I should follow. Before Jay Reatard died he said in a documentary that he felt like time was running out for him to make the music he wanted to make. Time is running out for me to write the kind of writing I want to write. That is why I’m going out into these woods. To pay the government back for what they gave me.
Another problem of my generation is prescription pills. Roxy codeine is destroying my old neighborhood and some of my family members. I think it comes down to money. Most of my American problems trace back to money. I’ve never been in a position where I did not have enough money. That is a very scary position to be in, and completely unrealistic. Money for me is just as real as the internet. I just said “keep your eyes on the road you hand upon the wheel,” to my roommate. He’s bringing “his babies” home with him. His babies are Budweisers. This apartment is not natural. These pine trees are my friends. The New Jersey Pine Barrens is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Think of how egocentric that statement is. I’ve only ever been to Vermont, New York, North Carolina, and one time to Florida. I got the flu in Florida and puked up a lot of red jello. There is a lot of places in this world I have never seen. Yet I stand behind my original statement.
When I get out to the spot I will plug in my laptop. Then I will probably play banjo for a while. I’ve been thinking a lot about wasting time. I waste a lot of time. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between doing something productive and wasting time. The two kind of blur together. I’ve read some peoples writing recently that I really admire. It’s as if they’re talking to me. Is this what Steven King was talking about? Mental telepathy. The reason I am on this trip is to learn whether or not I want to talk with dead animals. Or anything dead. I’m sure I’d want to talk to rocks and metals.
Meanwhile girls are thinking about how to teach little kids. No wonder men can’t write. Actually they can, they write about sports, because we are the best at playing sports. I want to learn the accents of trees. I must keep writing or else too much thinking will get in the way. It’s all in the fingers and their pace. It’s percussion to a song. It’s pressing the space bar. I want to press the space bar. I want to type “@musicmattress” into twitter.
It’s a new form. A space between. I hear a police siren. That’s only relevant to right now though. Or can be relevant in multiple places at once via digital reproduction of information. Dun da’ nun da’ nun. Onomotopia. I just googled “heyy” and it said “The app is currently unreachable” because I unplugged the internet cable long ago and hiked through the white sand. It is a geophysical masterpiece. I can’t stop writing or else I’ll just sit there staring at the screen and that’s bad for my eyes. Keep the fingers loose. Perhaps put on some Bob Dylan records. Or not.
“Have you heard the new Hendrix?”
“No,”
“Just kidding, it’s the Black Keys.”
Only in recent years has the human species begun to collect information in semiotic domains like runescape classic. I’m not out in the woods. I’m sitting on the couch with my computer right now. A big part of living in the woods is keeping up with your inner radio. You have to play the songs you want to hear. That time is never wasted. The time of recording music or writing a conceptual piece of writing is running out on creativity, and young thinking. I wonder how much a pine tree learns as a sapling. The 2 pines that hold up my hammock are my parents.
When I am in the woods of the United States of America I like to carve sticks. I always have and always will. I have a feeling that in 2012 we probably won't get the chance to vote for the people worth voting for. That’s why I’m carving up all these spears and stockpiling ‘em for the next Civil War. Maybe we should just re-enact the Civil War on Twitter. I predict I will get shot in the hip by a Confederate with a rifle, but my cellphone will block the musket ball. I won't have insurance on my phone, but my phone company will replace it for free anyway.
The worst/best part of writing is seeing who you really are inside. This semester I learned that it’s not a good idea to write about personal sad things if you don’t want to be forced to deal with it and turn something in. It’s the end of the civil war and I am camping in the snow off the Batona trail, listening to a live Mogwai song over audio of an interview by Michael Silverblatt of Tao Lin.
I saw Tao Lin fighting in the Civil War. He went to load his musket, and he couldn't do it. He just sat there, looking up on his cell phone how to load a musket. And there’s bullets and cannon balls flying past him, but they're not hitting him. And all of a sudden his cell phone turns into a flamethrower and he wins the civil war.
And maybe that’s why I don’t like re-writing as mush as I need to. I like it a little sometimes. I like to have a campfire. I like fire. Men like fire.
The End.
