WHY FORD WRITES

And he does write. 

Also he doesn’t. 

He’s not a machine.  And Die Hard won’t watch itself.

He can be found sat on life’s sofa like a sad bear,

held there,

hugged there,

trapped there,

by the arms of myriad and unremarkable fears,

lurking on the cusp of bad nap naps wasting the short hours in a safe stale pointless funk. 

Not writing. 

Myriad and unremarkable fears;

scared to write in case Rubbish Nothing comes out;

scared in case Rubbish Everything does and he ends the evening sobbing into his balls like a gay baby. 

Scared it will be bland and defeated, lacking in any spunk and zest. 

Scared he’s delusional and will experience a sick moment of clarity, put out his jazz cigarette raise his hand and say ‘promote me I will take work home and I’ve products to buy’. 

And he is delusional, Ford, he really is.

Scared it will be really difficult and he will be really bored. 

Scared of Living.  Scared of Not. 

Paralysed by choice he finds it is safe to just sit in between nothing and a vacuum

but comfy, still. 

The hard work between blind inspiration is his downfall.  Its too much like admin.

And the hard work of exposing his work; too much like admin.

But he does have blind inspiration, when the night has landed black and late and booze stains his shitty vest.

Its daunting, writing, raw creation.  Its daunting. 

Fill the abyss.  Just Me?  Little Ford?  Fill the abyss?  Daunting. 

So, night. 

Night; the answer to all the days questions. 

And out comes the scotch to loosen his balls into spoilt  yells and ill gasps. 

Twitching on a wooden chair now like some R-tard doing robotics. 

Balls out rock on the player. 

Ford writes. 

Whys are not in his hijacked quicksilver mind.

He carefully builds it up concentrating like a stoned bricky.

And he tears it down again like a monster child. 

And he slaps it around like a beer dad.

Ford is real.

Ford is 3D.

Ford is a fucking person, an angular god, creating . . .

and its all down hill from here . . .

but he is Fully Occupied. 

Fully Occupied Alone.

Distracted from the bigger dooms. 

His is Involved, Absorbed.

Ford is Functioning Mush before his fucking murder. 

Dumping gold from a happy arse. 

Experiencing the Frenchgasm.

And he’s like a dictionary helplessly vomiting all its small words. 

Vomiting up the refuse of the day, of other days, of all the nights. 

Prettying up the side product of a life of a nobody.

Painting glitter on lard.

Ford tries to avoid cliché and fat. 

Or embarrassingly he embraces them with drunken needy arms. 

Vomiting, yes vomiting. 

He vomits, Ford does. 

Like a teenager in a car park.

Vomits from the heart of his balls and the balls of his heart. 

Filling the abyss at least a little the best he can. 

And tho before the report is filed he would rather do Anything Else,

Anything Else at all,

Anything in creation but fill the abyss,

after  

then he finds Nothing Else appealing,

Nothing at all.

Nothing in creation is appealing

but

drinking scotch and chanting his own words over and over like a chimp wanking in a cage.

But this isn’t Why. 

This isn’t Why Ford writes. 

His reports are filed in dust. 

Only leaked out in motivation born of brief sobriety. 

A sobriety born of panic.  Panic born of sobriety.

So Why? 

Because he wants too.

That’s why. 

Because his balls tell him to. 

That’s why.

And because he can. 

Alone is the perfect time.  Ford is alone in perfect time.

The evenings when a workday bleeds out a sudden biro. 

That’s when he writes the bare bones down and throws on the wild wild flowers.  They catch on twigs and on thorns.

And because he can’t earn much,

can’t do careers,

doesn’t dig people;

is empty, default. 

Ford is default.  He maintains but he records.

Ford files his reports,

maybe not on time all the time

but diligently. 

He knows their importance is ironically beyond words. 

Ford likes cigarettes and the stereo and glasses heavy with ice. 

Ford likes solitude so he can think about people; but his hands and mind need expression.  Activity.

So Ford writes.

And Ford writes because he has to. 

All the day his head is full of sentences. 

He sees the world in sentences like Neo’s seeing the Matrix; in a fall of green streaming rain. 

But its not those sentences that come out alone in the evening. 

No, those words fade when the front door clicks shut. 

It’s a different world of words Ford spills. 

Fatter than the bare bones he hopes for and less pretty than the flowers he dreamed he could say.

Darker than the daylight thoughts he had. 

And Ford writes because he has before. 

He knows he can chase the perfect pome again like it’s as simple as fishing for a white whale. 

And Ford writes because he’s told people he does. 

He’s claimed to be a writer.  He has claimed the weird mystery.  The inherent romance.  Now he must do the work.

But sometimes he doesn’t write. 

Sometimes not for days. 

And this makes him moody.  Backed up. 

This makes it all harder to sit back down at the desk.  Sometimes he doesn’t even read. 

Not for days. 

And he never really knows why. 

Sometimes sitting in the baby dusk of the garden with the mini beasts and the exiled moon is enough. 

He grandly calls this gestation but he knows his is no genius machine.

He must wait.  Marshall strange forces.  Must concentrate.  Breathe.

Ford writes.  Ford has written.

He knows writing is only a fundamental form of communication but it holds so much mystic, glamour, and destruction that he feels compelled to do it while no one is looking.