What is the point of being understood? Is there one? One mode for self-evaluation in my writing is comprehensibility – who’s to say that being understood matters all the time. It doesn’t. My favorite authors took me ages to understand. Taking an original thought and refining it takes the edge off of it, and deprives it of some of its original verve and raison d’être. An original thought is a short wick that burns brighter every second you think on it. It is a wolf and a desire for comprehension is a firepit and consistent food – your words are a chihuahua.
An electric bird had eyes of ink, and a silver bullet for finding grub. His feathers were small but for his tail, and those could fan like an old Japanese Noh girl. I like the taste of my words, and the feel of them laid out without adulteration onto paper or page. They are childish and stupid often, and they do not waltz with the considered prose of the older masters, whose style is coming home again in the unoriginals like me.
The bird had a silver beak, and was bluer than sky. In its eyes, the abyss yawned, unconcerned. Too many commas for propriety, but I define my own propriety and am thus quite proprietous.
Still, with thoughts too much for here.
N