bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonn...

Everyone has internal life. 1 person I heard call it your inner theatre. And art, I feel and mentioned it 87 times before and I'll mention it 87 times again, art kind of helps fill the spaces in my interior stage on which there is no spotlight and I'm the sole actor. There's no audience cos I have nothing to say. However, about 40 minutes ago while chopping a tomato I thought a line that now on my laptop I type: The bark rejoiced and you're getting older, rottener. So I go on, on, keying forward, how the heart-twinge today felt unlike the usual pain, as if something ripped and said: You gonna die alone in the night, on a frosty street. The year will be 303 Drum Machine. So I'll be 52, same age as when Shakespeare pegged it. And when I think of my end I think of his initials WS and I think of the initials SB. I know what I mean. It's just brain-chatter, my body's pollution, the drainpipe from the firmament where I'll think of the word maggot and then think of my birth and hear the words doom and mom and stirrups. I see the chrome pincers glimmer when I consider my beginning. I was breach is why, a fortnight late my mom said. George Eliot Hospital. Yeah. Feels weird to type that. George Eliot Hospital. Feels like bad art. And I remember: A decade to the day later, I had a kidney infection and was in the children's ward of the same hospital. My mom said I was born at 2am and on my 10th birthday in bed at 2am I looked thru a window at the maternity building whose lights glowed boringly like any office block whose lights glow boringly when the sky's dark. During that illness I overheard a nurse explain to an asthmatic kid that George Eliot was not a man but a woman who wrote stories and all the wards are named after characters in her books and I thought: Sounds fun to be a writer. And I felt the same for 25 years. Sounds fun to be, but art changes and I became a typist of self-documentaries like many people in 2018 who if they breathe in they type I breathed in and if I breathe out they type I breathed out. And tacked to the wall adjacent to my gaze are 2 postcards, a photo of SB and of SB and both are black and white and I look at the grey faces and think: They're craftsmen. Both fit perfectly into my howl philosophy. Or do they? I'm still trying to work it out. Both SBs wrote about lonely maggots and I'm a lonely maggot and 1 of the SB's created shittalkers, specifically Watt or Worm, who howl and have to a tee the shittalk mastery and the style is up there with the howlingest in the language, was a thought tonight and a thought from most nights as I look at SB's eagle portrait. The Avedon photo. But then I think: The other SB, Canadian born, said how when he wanted to write a new kind of sentence he looked to Finnegans Wake cos its prose is made with a new type of sentence and that is another recurring thought as I sit pressing keys, thinking: Words that blaze and fade and disappear and yet mine just disappear. FW never saw sunlight. Me too. Wish it was winter 2016 and 17 when I reread Chapter 3 of Book 1 and it was as if experiencing a cubist version of current affairs with the letters spelling unfact and untruth and fake carnage and fake screws and hotel and creamery and establishment,. And I remember. So I type..............