“We’ll be reduced to bland subject matter, just to avoid embarrassment.” – The Writing Class
The fiction writer is a fictional artist
A recorder of the con; living in the con, breathing in the con, working the con and retelling it to unsuspecting ears.
From the crack of dawn until the setting of the sun, this life is a mound of clay – molded to the specifications of the story teller…the story maker.
Because the greatest truths and the greatest lies have not come from soldiers and martyrs, not the teachers or students but the artists. The artists of the con.
The mouth you feed. Filled with shit
The bible you read. The con made it.
The sky you see. Foundation laid.
The God within it. The story we made.
History is what we want you to know. The future is where we want you to go. The day is but the time to rise. The night is your impending demise. Because we’ve made the weather and decided whether you will know tomorrow…if the chapter is completed.
Defeated, sometimes we end on an ellipses that is meant to travel like sands of time……………..until the decline of interest in which we pick it up with a beat, a strike of the keys, demigods and pleas…sanction on screens and pages and repeated by drones we’ve hand plucked from the tomb of unsuspecting…canvases.
Because you are nothing unless I make you into my heroine. But your not the drug of this plot. Just the catalyst until I devour inspirations – presented on a platter, soaked in your tears. Which I made.
A league of extraordinary…liars. We breathe into life what your nimble mind couldn’t even imagine. We make tree’s resemble men and men resemble dirt and earth resemble the heart – pulsing and growing and dying and flowing
Into rivers created to sweep away poorly made paragraphs and half assed sentences lingering on the edge of the rocks, reaching out desperately to dead words from dead languages
quid solebat te mori
Because it is not in this segment, this chapter, this section of the trilogy. You last as long as the artist desires, as long as the con must continue. Because every bad thing that happens to you is for some audience to relate and to pity and to empathize and to say “damn, so glad that shit ain’t happenin’ to my ass.”
The air you breathe. We made it be.
The life you conceive. That’s thanks to me.
The dreams you chase. You follow my lead.
The regrets to erase. I give what you need.
Your government, your religion, your desires, your fantasies, your goals, your wonders exist solely because someone somewhere read something we left behind. The flame that makes people hungry, warm, passionate, assiduous. We left the seed that planted the tree that fed the fruit that made shit happen.
We create and then take. And you want us to. Spark up images of demons and defiled innocence, the goddess upon the mount and the mole in the hill, the sad man cradling his dying dog on the street with a sign that begs for food and the triumphant moments of autistic children learning and sharing and loving and knowing…something powerful. We create the bad, the good, the hideous and the microscopic images of perfection, speckled on a dark cloud, raining down upon you maybe once…twice in a lifetime.
That rain you will chase into a forest never seen and you will fight for a love you couldn’t possibly ever know. But you think you can. Because someone, somewhere…wrote about it. And left it on a parchment in the sand. For you. To find. To dream. To reach.
For the stars you cant kiss and the moon you cant touch and the sun you cant really feel because none of it is there. We are the magicians of the world, which is really just a box, a cubicle in a building that isn’t really a building but a tunnel of dirt. And in this tunnel, we are all still and blank and filled with nothing. We have no skin, no bones, no reflections but are the epitome of ghosts.
Until the artist comes. The artists come. The madmen. The delusional sirens projecting their hallucinations onto those tunnel walls, smearing the smudge into enough paint to cover your lifetime. Because nothing you know is yours. It is just another manipulation of ink upon a collection of notes. Your life is not yours, oh no.
Is just another sentence.
In the book of the Con