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.
