That's just lush
Created in pencil
Freud had this thing that neuroses was living with the consequences of things you make happen, or happen to you, in a filtered but not causal way (the giant's causal way, which is the effect of sea on ireland).
Likewise I have this neurotic pessimism trick that I have used since a teenager to aspiritually influence the fate I don't believe in - if I can convince myself something won't happen through the asinine and capricious bollocks of fuckyou that Life seems to serve up on the dinner plate of extended metaphor, but tastes like equal parts ashes and shit, then, and only then, will the fuckyouness of this purgatorial existence deliver the opposite. (the opposite I actually wanted, but in a reversal of solipsism I somehow think there's me and one other only - the personal god who revels in my disappointment, like a pig in shit).
The problem is You (this imagined other who dictates into a cosmic dictaphone cross notes and bitter weaselry) have probably got wise to this trouble-bluffing. So now I have to layer irony on with a vowel (I) in order to not really mean I don't really want it.
This is thinking in parentheses, sequestering a part of conscious contemplation into a bracketed sub-clause of the sentence that's top of brain: "this won't happen (I hope it will), it will happen (not willingly)"
Isn't it though?
This will be edited for tone, balance and ineptitude of this grammar is.
I will write a novel of serious import and gravity, its weight will break your wrist if you try to pick it up, or throw it forcibly aside.
It will take in a desert journey and an autobiographical rite of passage, and both of those will be seamlessly interwoven, so you can't tell what is warp or weft.
On the continuing journey, each element of paragraph will subsume the usual tropes of fine writing and arch indifference to writerly custom, as is customary.
I will usually divest myself of the novelist decentred self, and make a comedian callback to the thing I said (which is an anagram of dais)
You can tell literary fiction, because there's no description of things.
See, I just did that. At no point gone was the description of a mountainous hedge or grass like wet carpet, when I got thrown out of home, arse over elbow, and got introduced to dandelions at ground level.
Well now it's the new decade, and I have done a bunch of twitterage that was both angry, incoherent and ungrammatical.
So, I'm taking some time off from peninsula of diskgrinder and retrenching here to the hinterland of blog.
That metaphor works like a simile.
One of the things I decided for this newly minty decade, was that I would construct sentences in a backwards manner, didn't I.
I also read a book that was good (Jesus Son) and am reading one (The Broom of the System), which sofa, is fairly crap - a bunch of literary tricks strung together on an increasingly tenuous thread. or shit. Can't decide, but won't burn it yet.
In other news, I gave up smoking and drinking. Fleetingly.