The Struggle to Get some Writerly Sense

I will write this essay slow with short breaks to read the text of Krip Yuson’s 1991 book Confessions of a Q.C. House-husband and other Privacies. Yes, of course the music background will be those new wave singles I have downloaded from Ares. Let the jumble thoughts or if there ever were force themselves into order so this essay will have some sense. Of course, there’s Lil Feather doing the laundry and egging me to write and work asking for my attention to see the developments in her task. During these times when my brain and mind lack any stamina to form a composition longer than a sentence, I would need to call for heaven’s help, call Kerouac (or curse him for the influence for the impatient haphazard type-writing yakking that would need the kick of one liter Red Horse to do), summon the souls of Hemingway and Joyce and guide me to go to Mexico to kill Ignacio Padilla heir to the throne of Latin-American magical fiction writers like Gabo. This is back to basics; the only difference now is that I’m dreadfully writing on a laptop and seeing the white pages of Word to be filled not the way when I started to write when I was younger, writing with ballpen and a piece of cross-wised-folded paper on the second landing of the apartment we used to rent back in the 90’s. The struggle is still the same: force myself not to succumb to the gravitational pull of the bed and just continue to write, yes yak, flex that writerly writer in me… (Intro: Leave me Alone of New Order… ever notes proves to be a tingling urging sensation in my legs… from my head to my toes I see a vision that would bring me luck… I just smile).