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8:50 p.m. - 2002-05-27
The town where my mom lives and I grew weed was on the MTV weed special! You can see my mom's restaraunt and everything!
So. I reached the place that I have always anticipated with a good measure of skepticism. The cross roads.

I have thought that I wanted to be a writer since I was in third grade, or grade three as we Canadians call it. But what the fuck does that shit mean? Did I want to do it because it came easily to me? Was it because I seemed to excel at those school assignments that gave much space for imagination and wordplay and emotional investment? Because language seems to flow through my head like chocolate in the Wonka factory, ready to be scooped up with a mug or dove into by a fat little boy?

I spent years saying that I wanted to write, but not writing. I was beginning to feel like it was a fallacy, a little bit of bullshit designed to provide whatever hell in which I was stuck making my living with a little air conditioned comfort in the form of “when I grow up I’ll be a“. But now, now this fire has been relit. My life has been cleared of obstacles like the red sea. I wonder though, am I a Moses led Jew or one of the Pharaoh’s pursuing soldiers destine to be swallowed by a ill advised decision in this particular tale?

You ever wonder what it would be like if you grew up in a region that spoke a completely different language than the one you speak now? How would it sound in your head as you thought your daily thoughts? Would the structure of the particular communication system steer your thinking down slightly different paths than the ones they have taken? What if you grew up void of language? Would your ideas take the form of pictures and present themselves in complicated diagrams? Would you see your future plans instead of hear them?

I wonder how much quieter it would be in there without the means my mentality has at it’s current disposal.

This barrage of English that is created minute by minute inside my skull is about the best thing I have to give to the world. I can do many different tasks, as my young life, soon to be prefix struck, has proven to me. But I hate it. I hate the shit that has made me the living I have made so far. I like to try to touch people. I like to try to push my mentality into their heads have them follow my train of thought for a time, make them understand my pain or joy or visions of the absurdity that we face each and every day that I can never seem to stop thinking about. I like to try to understand their own ways and experiences, not just to better understand myself, but because I’m curious.

One thing that Charles told me was that the most important element of writing is the application of the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. Am I ready to be serious about this?

Can I afford not to be?

 

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