A dangerous thing to do; slaughtering the sacred cow to assure yourself it was alive.
To write on writing is a dangerous thing to do. It is slaughtering the sacred cow to assure yourself it was alive. It is making rules and restrictions for yourself. And, if you are wrong you are stuck, again, watching from too far in front of your eyes, and even worse, if you are right, your own rebellious spirit will do the opposite just to make sure. So in the end, fuck you, if its dangerous, let my fear portray itself as courage and my anxiety transcend to eagerness. The writer has nothing but a white page and some words, and of course the words look beautiful, in a size twelve, times new roman font, but the blank page, is perfection. Everything is perfection without humans, so it makes you think there must be something else going on, a meaning. Or its just perfect because no one is around to say it isn’t?
In the end, it does not matter, as long as you have the ability to let go. Letting go and holding on. Some things don’t make sense, but you fight for them. Some things do, and you fight them. The blood covers the page and you preach no violence with it.
Can you be a good writer and a good person?
You would have to ask someone who is either. Sometimes I brush the shoulders of both. But really, I am an antagonist who wants to go to the edge of time and poke it, just to see what happens, just to feel alive.
As I write, I veer away from whatever it is I want to say, because I don’t have anything to say, and that can be seen as an alarm for the writer, for anyone, but it is peace, it is bliss, it is death.
Do you have to create pain, create chaos?
No, you don’t have to, the world does that for you. You just have to be slow enough to be able to watch it. People chase, they chase and chase, but its half a step behind you, everything. If you can have the faith to wait, to sit and wait, it all surrounds you. Of course, it is coming from behind you, so you cant see it coming, you don’t know what it is, but you welcome it. Get me you bastard.
The troubles I face, is having a restriction I have put on myself, and then doing my best not to be controlled by the rebellion of that.
Many think that good artists have to be broken, come from a shit family or a tough upbringing, but it isn’t true. The freedom those people have is they don’t care what people think about their dad, their mother, themselves, and they have no interest in the world liking them because they feel it did them an injustice. So they can express their truth. Maybe, fucked if I know. That doubt, of course, is constant pain, but, but is a three-letter word like God, and you could write a million pages and a million more, on either side of whatever it is you think you believe in. Writing is a gift, is a universe within presence and lets you roam freely and get hurt, get killed, love and be loved, all whilst sitting having a beer and listening to music.
You search for a friend out there, with your brother, with your mother, with your footy mates, with women, with your best friend, but it is not what you really need, you need to be friends with your soul, and here you both play.
The ego, of course, is a beautiful thing. Such a beautiful thing. The same way a paint brush should be commended for the painting. Same way the paint brush holds the colours and textures of the past, that burns in alcohol to be cleaned, who in the end, despite whatever you try, is thrown back to earth. The painting lives on, soon dying too, but what they all did together kept an essence alive. I often think, we are here just to keep an essence alive, to sit in the suffering and smile, to enjoy the pain so much it becomes pleasure. As long as you can feel, whatever allows the senses to sharpen and not dull because it cant handle it. And I hope, as an old man, I can cry.
Apathy is the scariest thing. But in the end, its always something. There is always something to observe. I wrote a line saying, ‘I took the time to write down this thought, because I wanted to show it to you.’
In other words saying, I step out of the present time to capture something, to show it back to what I'm capturing. Like a photographer at a wedding, there but not there. So, soon you let go of all of that, and you go back to telling people you're an electrician, not because you are scared of success, manifesting your role into the world that sits in your heart and comes to life with breath, but to live is to be present.
There is just something there, a separation from the flow of things, and you often wonder, is the world out of touch, or just me? Let go.
Let go of all of that.
Like the Taoist that is told not to talk about the Tao. Zen is to be present. The buddha is to just be. The writing path is a spiritual path, and that is why it is a gift. To see it as torture saddens me and I want to say, “Well go try something else.”
Writing is not torture, it is your best friend who helps you endure it. And you can write a million best friends. A billion people a little different but you get them, they get you, and when they don’t, you can see why, maybe they’re right?
Corruption will always come, but it helps expose it and not all corruption is bad. You can be corrupted by love, which is a sweet passage to fall into, you can be corrupted by hatred, which can be humorous if you let it be, and you can be corrupted by being a fucking sook. But, if you have the ability to take a step back and read as if someone else wrote it, isn’t it better to find out you have been corrupted by something with a few pages of bad writing, than whatever else it would take to break free?
For me, I have so many people I love, surrounded by success and pride that stands like a castle. I am the lurking fool, that can hinder its reputation with honesty. That, is in the eyes of the reader, to have some form of nuance, to know if you fucked a dog then you aren’t a bad person, you were just a little lost. Just tell them its all made up, hide the truth in entertainment and let them do the rest. Don’t break that fourth wall too much, you see it in movies all the time now, its sad, it is insecurity, trying to speak to the critic before they get a chance to critique. Give it all you have got, let them do what they want with it.
The drink aids letting go, brings a calmness and fluidity to it. Like a pianist who can only play with his eyes closed. You know nothing is going to happen, but with a drink in hand, it might. You cant show prejudice to information, good wine does not have to come from a good bottle. As I said, to not be controlled by the rebellion is the second half of the awakening. I will give just about anything a go, other than fucking a guy (yet). I have already tried a lot, like parties and loud music, like dance floors and self-help books, like six packs and bullying. But the world keeps saying ‘how bout this?’ and I say ‘shit, maybe.' Then separate me from myself, watch myself do it, and whatever sticks sticks. I don’t bother with hard drugs, I know good stories lay in there, but I can learn things from others and see where most of it ends. Lets see how that holds up.
I say to you, "Let me drink, information can come from anywhere.”
And she replies, "Well, how about yoga?"
And I've been done on a technicality.
At times, you need to be present, you need to take the body and labels off and just go to that place where everything seems to come from.
The void of endless possibilities.
The chef also needs to be a fisherman, and the man who loves eating fish, also needs to understand he might be going hungry and don’t rely on others you fat lazy cunt.
In the end, which never comes, my advice on writing is that I don’t have any. You never know. You never will. You can just see what is good and bad, and your taste refines. But (God) evolution does not always mean better. Bob Dylan didn’t know those songs were going to be his best, that he was tapping into somewhere he would not be able to return, and maybe, this isn’t the greatest you will be, but it will be the greatest you will create.
The world is full of amazing performers, there are only a few creators, that can float in the void, be the smartest and dumbest person on the planet at the same time, who can constantly burn to death and stand tall as something new. The snake’s courage to shed its skin. It is going to happen anyway, its fun to observe.
Simplicity is patience. Often laziness. I hope you do not see it as an exercise, like going to lift weights just to feel a little bigger. It is making love with the cosmos. If you were in bed with the most beautiful girl in the world (which I have been) would you rush to cum just so you can sit there stupid with the feeling of accomplishment of fucking the hottest girl in the world?
Or would you take your time, kiss her inner thigh, taste her, and make her wanting to come back when it is all over? Make her yearn for you.
Yes, my friend, writing is better than a good fuck, more endurance, better company and you can drink and listen to music whilst you do it. If it grows dull, it is because you have, thank her for showing you. The blank white page, the mirror, the cosmic mistress, the best friend at the bottom of the ninth! The mustang in an open field!
Simplicity, as I was saying, is the ability to just say what you want to say, and the corruption and protection of your pride, your relationships, others pride, is generally what pushes a writer to want to be alone. I cannot deny being an adult, whilst surrounding myself with adults. I can hurt myself, ruin myself, kill myself, drag myself through the mud to stand tall and look good with a black eye, but can those I love and want around me handle that?
Why Russian literature is so long, the cunts weren’t allowed to just say it!
Sometimes people come who inspire you. I've gone so long without compliments that I've become numb to them, when they come they do nothing for me. But those real life characters your imagination could never create without seeing them right in front of you, that's what you want. Write something to share with them, they have the taste and care that may be aligned or as good as yours, they are a treasure, I am learning that now, and it may not hold true, but for now it is true, and it is always now. Modern and medieval are different names for the same thing. A purist is another word for being stuck in the past. We need new rock stars.
But do not fear having nothing to say, we could all do with that, and when you have nothing to say, enjoy it, shut up, listen to the birds and the piano, listen to a laugh of a beautiful girl from Argentina, watch the cat close its eyes as you pet it behind its ear, laugh at something, make something up, fuck it, do what you want brother. You are free. And if you're not, be, and if you don’t want to be, then that is your freedom.
There you have it, Riley Dyson, thirty years old with nothing to his name but a lifetime to travel into and watch again, telling you, someone who did not ask, about writing, when my first poetry book has not sold more than thirty copies, and the ones who did buy it, did it out of support and pity, and did not read it. Whilst I could cry, for I have found something, where me and my soul can enjoy a drink together, where I can go to get life when life tries to take it away from me. Where I can go to give life when death pushes it into my veins. I love you, I love all of you, don’t get too close when I say that, don’t get carried away, still give me my space, but I love you, because everything that has happened that I once hated led me here, to the white blank page, where my tears and blood, my celebrations and cries, my pain and my joy can talk.
I love you.
