From the creative process

Like taking a picture while taking a shit.

Behold.

05.07.22

“Who said that love was fire? 

I know that love is ash. 

It is the thing which remains 

when the fire is spent, 

the holy essence of experience.”

— Patience Worth

And something bland along the lines of:

Πίστη στις καρωτίδες

πίστη και στις σφαγές

πόδια λεχέμ μισνέ

το αλάτι του ιδρώτα

η καρβουνιά του κόπου

το ήσυχο βράδυ

το μόνο καταφύγιο 

η γωνία του ακρωμίου

τα σώματα άδεια σε παράταξη

ξεχασμένα απ'το θεό

ώσπου ήρθε η μεγάλη φωτιά 

κι έγιναν όλα στάχτη.

I'm a headless captain steering a sinking ship. I can't shed this feeling that I've been living on borrowed time since that summer day of 2017, when I tied a noose around my neck with a fabric belt that had been left in my apartment in a sleepy town in south-west Denmark, walked out to the hallway, picked a spot along the railing of the staircase and tied a boom hitch knot. I lowered my body as I had done many a time before. It's called partial hanging in forensics. The partiality refers to the body not losing contact with the ground, thus not being completely suspended by the neck, something I am experienced at. But this was not with intent to cum harder, it was with intent to die; and it would've done nobody any good for me to die inside an apartment, rotting in the summer heat till I be found, all too late, a vile meaty mush. No, it had to happen somewhere more public, so I'd be found fast, shipped to Germany and burned. When I relaxed my back the belt stiffened around my neck for a familiar long moment before it snapped. Funny thing I was already hard, diligently conditioned through the years. But I was not yet gone. That was not a turning point. It was a ghost death. Not because of hesitation, but of mere material failure. The belt had choked me before, of course; it was material fatigue. I sat still for a few minutes, drenched in greasy misery, a sad excuse for a man, a fucking wimp. My defiance was spent, there was nothing left in me that would make me go for it again for good, I was a lich, something more wretched than just dead. Then I got up, went back to the apartment and time evaporated until I was woken by the phone ringing the next day, first of August 2017. They had been calling from the hospital, asking whether I'd show up for the shift I was two hours late for. I said no, I was pretty hoarse, I said I was down with a bad cold. Make sure this does not turn into a repeat offense, or else you will be fired. All my days since have been on a theoretical timeline, that was not supposed to be. It is, too, part of the creative process, part of a gray biography of some man. Read on:

some man who is prince to some.