DIARY OF A 21st CENTURY DRUNK
Entry One....
Dear Diary,
I shall untangle knots by first tangling them into knots.
It is a hard world I see. A hard world I hear and feel and smell and taste... taste the world – or in any drunk’s case drink it. Then: another sense, a sixth sense that is all the other senses in a Holy Unity as well as being separate itself within a Sextet of Senses: and that final sense is to live the world to its very dregs. To jump-start it not just into ‘living’ as an economic process but into ‘life’ itself as a graspable object.
I call myself a 21st Century Drunk to protect my name and reputation. So, yes, now, on that note, I am as anonymous as the day I first emerged from my mother’s sanctuary, before she named me with a name I had not chosen. Instead, I choose a name for myself or, rather, a proper descriptive label beyond the scope of any traditional name given to any of us at Baptism or Christening or other Religious rubber-stamping ... or by burning brand ... or mere legal registration.
‘A 21st Century Drunk’ in all but name.
This is in turn called a diary. But it is not really a diary. Another misnomer that the diarist who gave me birth called me. It is really an account of a world in freefall from the point of view of someone who is also in freefall but not really a drunk that is drunk on drink in the ‘normal sense’.
I am someone who lives between the lines of the writer’s words. A thing with a mission. Not an Oba-Ma. But that word Oba-Ma in itself seems as if a Manitou or other totemic beast lives again to stir this pot of syrupy text.
I am a drunk, though. But drunk on words, not drink. Drunk on death. Drunk on dream. Drunk on despair. Drunk on description of all of these things.
In this my ‘diary’, then (and make no mistake), I shall pull the word-strings, not any writer who claims to write them down from scratch ... and I shall do this to tease the limbs of any dark puppet that lurks within the heart of truth-fiction and, in essence, to make the juices of the ‘life’ economy flow again by revitalisation of despair.
I shall over-dose upon the sense of living: upon a sense that becomes a drink impossible not to gulp down as it invisibly fills the air we breathe; making words ‘live’ rather than just ‘denote’ or, at more length, ‘describe’ ... by weaving the word-strings in ceremonious serendipity within a texture of many texts in a delightfully sinful syntax of togetherness by the very words eventually to be unstrung.
I am no mere Oba-Ma, I promise you. Perhaps I am the Ooggee-Ooggee Man!
In the second entry, this first knot will be untangled.
ENTRY TWO HERE
=================