Revolution Peeps.

At the risk of sounding, well, like a wanker, I came across a stash of old writings and journalisms and such, stuffed away in a forgotten box the other day, and reading through some of it, I was pretty fucking impressed with myself. It is a strange phenomenon, I find, to revisit your own work with the separation of a sieve-like memory between one’s present existence, and the original spouting of the bullshit. And don’t get me wrong, it is bullshit, it’s just well-written bullshit.

So while it’s not like I have suddenly found myself with some golden manuscript, publishable, and ready to make me a literary celebrity, or at least able to afford to feed myself for another couple of weeks (which is becoming quite possibly impossible quite soon), I am in possession of what is perhaps a greater prize, namely a heavy sheaf of tightly rolled paper with which to beat the fuck out of my consistent self-doubt.

Not that I think I am going to give up the occasional good wallow, but fuck if I am going to wallow in something, I’d much rather do it in a healthy dose of inebriation. Which brings me back to the boxer shorts, the rum and the typewriter… but unfortunately not to sharing the hard-on…


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on August 15th, 2010.

3 Responses to “Revolution Peeps.”

  1. Hmmm… I too discovered a similar box the other day, equally (if not longer) forgotten, residing in the alternative universe
    of “the attic”… the musings of some home-stay student resident late-slipped from memory, methought, buried as they were in the desk drawer. Blow me down if it didn’t contain writings, ramblings, the precocity of which astonished me. No. No student
    I recalled could write like that.

    Oh! Thank the Gods! It’s must be me… I can write after all! I pondered further. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember
    writing it. Surely, if I could do it so well, I would remember the doing of it? Still, it was hand-written. And the
    caligraphy did use spindly, black strokes, the likes of which a long-dead teacher of mine had told me looked “like a spider
    has crawled across the page and expired after its arduous journey to the edge”. Hah! It must be me! I looked again. Attempted to re-trace the letters with my forefinger. They didn’t fit. No mind… I snatched up a pencil to prove to myself once and for all that I was, indeed, the author. DAMN! They still didn’t fit. Whoever created that ridiculously-shaped “A”, it sure as hell weren’t me. Further re(fle)ction, gazing through the holes in my mind burned by acid, and I came to realise that unless they had resided in selfsame holes, there never had been any writings, let alone these ones.

    Further study. Further impressed. (With the words themselves, not the physical formulation thereof.) In a flash of inspirational brilliance I alighted upon a solution. A solution that almost fit my quarter-baked ‘authorational’ desires. If it can’t be me, it must be a product of my loins! The genetic code lives on and with writing of that quality, I’m bound to be secure in my dotage (provided the silly sausage doesn’t collapse into self-doubt).

  2. You’s a fool Pa… but I’ll take it…

  3. All true, but!

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