A Kind of Madness

I’ve settled upon a few things about writing and reading and they are like imprints I can feel … breath and heartbeat on my walk, smooth stones in my lungs … and they take in everything that I can see and think, everything that is real

Voice is the key to writing, on the wire, in the wind as the Indian Nations listen to pole and track … falling upon the ground in disbelief, dying suddenly, asleep, a great sadness, as if all the blood in the world has vanished across some threshold unknown to me

Style is more important than content, just ask the sun in the sky, a unique style gives one the confidence to refashion birth and death with cotton candy and endless spoons

Honesty over truth, since no one knows the truth, particularly people who were there, hurt in those lost moments, so far away, dense in the petrified woods like figures trapped in the night of all nights

Truth is in the reading, not in the writing, and each pair of eyes has its own reality of dreams and suffering and mistakes, happiness and new found friends and who among us is foolish enough to believe that love conquers all and death has no dominion

No one reads anymore and the black pearls on the thread connect us all together … dreams, spoken stories in the firelight, prophecies, confirmation bias like our meal of raw meat and picked berries and we know what to expect, because we expect it, and there it is

Surely I would die if I could not read or write and I have decided that writers are generally more crazy than other artists, more than the painters and musicians, more than the sculptures and the photographers, the dancers and the actors, the masters of cloth, print making, film … other artists are not so troubled by the constant voice that cuts into flesh, the unstoppable stream that causes writers to bleed upon the bed, take notes at the graveside, smile as if they meant it

Can one be a great writer and a good person … I think not … regret, guilt, pain, denial, lies, redemption and desperate love are at the heart of great art, and it is hard to write about killing someone unless you have killed someone, and if you have not loved to the point of hyperventilation, then how do you write about love, and if you are not possessed by these things, these human emotions and criminal, immoral acts, then you can’t find your voice and if you can’t find your voice, then you can’t be honest, and you remain unfulfilled, and you do not darkly suffer and long for the life and exhilaration of words like scraps tossed to dying dogs in the street

This I know …

11 thoughts on “A Kind of Madness

  1. material for several novels here, Duke, you ain’t gonna ever catch up… u realize that.

    I esp loved: ” Honesty over truth, since no one knows the truth, particularly people who were there, hurt in those lost moments, so far away, dense in the petrified woods like figures trapped in the night of all nights.”

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Hi Hot,

      If there was a way to stick a needle in your arm and I could send you a transfusion of my DNA and tiny Jpeg images, you know in the blood cells, and if all of that could wind it’s way up into your brain, and if you had the right projector in your mind’s eye then you could understand how all of this works for me. Imagine you are in the Paris sewers, down where the catacombs twist with the rats or you are at some high altitude on a mountain long forgotten by most, too out of the way to climb, only useful as a mountain on the horizon and nothing more, yeah, put all of that in a blender and that would be me, that would be who I am. So there is the answer to your question. If you have anymore, please put them in the metal drop box just outside my door. Duke

      Liked by 1 person

      1. You’re unique, no doubt about that. But what about Baby Duke? Surely you’ve got some early embarrassments. How would you describe your own critical eye?

        (Oh I hope Mr Huston isn’t around to read this question.)

        Like

  2. Golly Moses Duke – perhaps we should add this to Tragedy? I found in my mother’s papers a letter written expressing her guilt because at age five days she left me for almost a year on an Indian reservation with my grandparents. I’ve often wondered why I think rocks have souls.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Well, would we make this one the last piece? Easier for you, right? If you want to do this then I need to mess with it. I spent about 30 minutes writing the thing. It could be honed and made funnier. Like, if your going to write about killing someone, it might be nice if you’ve actually killed someone. Stuff like that. Right now it is sort of a rant. Duke

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Loved your line Duke that ” writers are generally more crazy than other artists “…it’s a gift and only you writers know for sure !! Good piece bud !!
    Mike

    Liked by 1 person

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