Authorship

On the publication of secrets and the difficulty to read something that has been already been read and rendered a hundred times over by a hundred and one eyes that aren't mine.


Ha.

I hope you think I am a ghost.
I hope you think I am writing from beyond the grave, determined little student, just chugging away. I hope you wonder. I hope you pick one up and just look, because I will be looking, and somewhere between my page and your page, something will mingle sweetly, linger, discreetly, and I don't know if you'll know, but I will, because that's what authors do, and I'll get a kick out of it. A yip. A bark.

Ha.

I hope I am uncanny to you. I hope you see what I have written, see yourself, see this different self, and shiver. Because you are there--you may be sure of that. I have put you there. I want you to see yourself at the bottom of a riverbed; pressed into the stars; curled over the earth. I have no desire to render you; no, you must live so I can write. Paint. Feed? Ettlinger really was mad. His execution was all wrong. He should have been a vampire. He should have left his host alive. The larger flea must learn to eat a little thinner--it will be worth it in the end.

~~


But this, this other thing, is not mine at all. And I don't know if I can make it mine--there's so much noise and chatter and fussing and dining that I do not even know where to grab hold of it. I feel I cannot fulfill my role as a proper reader, a proper author--someone keeps opening their trap and trying to tell the story for me. I cannot reach the root or soil with these big umbrella leaves in the way.