Archive for July, 2006

Wreader

Wednesday, July 19th, 2006

I’ve heard that writers read a lot, that they consume books like coal-miners quaff huge breaths of clear air after being trapped miles down in a collapsed mine. I’ve heard that writers–the commercially successful ones–don’t drink, or do drugs, or show up to appointments late… Just goes to show, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.

I’ll tell you why writer has a ‘w’ in it, and reader does not: work. Reading is not work, despite what all the marketing boys tell you, all the movie executives–funny, because they think work is taking a bid on margin and waking up with a fattened stock portfolio. Reading is not work. Take pornography for example. Reading porn is not work, except maybe for trying to keep it hidden from the patrolling prudes who are seriously running out of reasons to demonize it. Those debates aside, you take a small paperback and hide it inside your math text book, and it is telling you all about what you wish you were doing to a particular girl with reddish-blond hair. And what she is doing to you in response. MmHmm.

Reading is not work. Learning to read is work. Finding reading material is work. Tearing yourself off the trunk that flows in mindless pulses through the mindless places where it takes no effort to go; the malls, and movies, and McDonalds, the TVs and the ten thousand channels of pre-digested pablum prepared especially for you–tearing away from a habit like that might involve a smidgen of effort. But then…

But then it is all in the mind, where one world meets another world, where time bends like a lazy banner in the breeze, where we see the inside of our selves sit down beside ourselves, and where the grandchildren we will never have sit in our laps, and giggle.

We are a far too technical culture. But I love this techno-culture, and I promote it; it takes us away, absorbs these endless minds and engages this unquenchable creativity in a (maybe) constructive endeavor. Creativity makes so many other things fall into their right places of unimportance: righteous, pompous crusades promoting guilt and unhappiness, seeking to whip-up something solid from empty causes… Too bad those causes hold so much bitterness, they could probably whip-up some decent cotton candy, if only they had a little sugar.

In the Summertime, a little sugar in the summertime, baby… yeah. Wet T-shirts, painted-on jean shorts, the skin wants out! Let it outta here! This is where life was made to live; this air sparkling yellow sunlight, these hot breezes damp with potential, ready to rise up and lay down all in the same gentle touch. Touch me honey, touch me just a little; don’t think about it at all, your moist and shiny back sliding so soft against his glistening tricep; don’t even notice when he turns to see who this new girl might have been against him for a moment, just keep moving on, mingling, giving away such sugary gentle gifts as these…

You look write, we look write, Let’s go sit out on the dock away from all the party lights, and listen to the water lick the shore and distort the stars, let’s feel that warm damp sea-breeze’s whispers about our potential. A nuzzle, and a giggle, and a tickle with a tongue. I feel warm, and high, and powerful and weak, all at once. We look write together, right now, and we could write a book… and, oh, man, it would be a good one, such a story, and it would sing a song like this song I’m feeling here in my heart, my pounding heart. C’mon, baby, down on the sand–let’s go! Let’s start writing our story, together in the sand… This one doesn’t have an end…

That is where the work begins. Hardly a tedious effort one might say, but significant physical exertion nonetheless–the joy of adrenaline and sweat. And Wreader, you are just along for the wride, a fascinating wride, a fantastic pleasurable trip, and quite a pleasure for me to write it for you as well.

And it’s not over…