Columnist for Monday, 4/30 - Wanton Hussy


Writer's block. Blocked writers. Writers stuck in blocks, walled in by pallets of paper, reams of whiteness. Fingers itchy for pen or pencil, ink or lead. Black ink staining the forefinger, broken nibs of fountain pens, scratching, gouging holes in paper. Splintered, fractures bones of pens, encased in casts of masking tape. So much more satisfying than the typetty typetty type click click click of the stupid keyboard and the stupid humming fan of the stupid computer. Shut UP ALREADY! I don't need this impatient mechanical pressure, demanding that I create! Fuck you! Give me nice calm paper and pen any day.

A good pen is essential. I prefer the liquidy bally point type, that smears when it's wet, but doesn't drip like a fountain pen or a post-ejaculatory man. One that writes a line of cursive c's smoothly and sweetly, like caressing a woman's full breasts. Gentle, gentle, gentle, yes. And a hard TAP at the end of the sentence like an impertinent tweak of a nipple, for contrast. Black, always black. For writing, composition, thinking, it must be black as the night, dark as the subconscious, form marrying formlessness on the blank white pages and waltzing around and around into chapters.

I prefer bound books with fabric covers, ideally blank unlined pages. But I can't write on them. My cramped crippled mental patient handwriting, no printing, demands the captivity of lines. Otherwise chaos. It must be restrained, bound in, controlled, rendered somewhat legible for a second draft. Or just for my future self. The curves of cursive and calligraphy and other such womanly handwriting always eluded me. I attempted imitation in junior high but gave it up for speed in note taking in high school. My J's are permanently unusual because I thought the way Jen Rad made hers in 7th grade was so cool, angular and assertive and nothing like me.

The paper should have texture enough to suck up the ink like a thirsty whore, but not feel harsh and rough as if she were old and much-used. It should be sturdy enough to absorb drops of blood, sweat, or tears without rendering the content illegible, but I will forgive it if it cannot stand up to a slip into the bathtub. That would be unrealistic, when a Pelican Hamlet cannot even withstand such treatment. I like it when the covers are fabric, a bold dark print or plaid, to absorb the wiping of ink pens or the sweat of furtive scribbling hands. Soft on the outside, protective of the shards of glass and steel within. The pages look so innocent until they are spread open and deflowered with my harsh handwriting and monstrous musings. Sullied, they are treasured beyond the crown jewels, unlike girls are. I always kept them in a suitcase under the bed so I could save them and my stuffed elephant Timore in case there was a fire.

But I don't write like that anymore. I used to do brain surgery on myself every couple of days, the tragedies of my youth unfolding to be engraved with an exacto knife, lest I forget. If forgotten, perhaps it wouldn't have happened. If forgotten, perhaps it would have no meaning. Without meaning, why did I go through it all? But doesn't everyone go through it all, in their own ways, and isn't such writing just a smearing of shit on the bathroom walls to prove that you've had one? Should you keep records of it forever just because it came out of you?

So no more writing. Just typing, every week a different assignment.

Public. Without fear of what you may think, those who know me.

I will not bleed for you, here.

Just type.

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