My best friend knees me several times, hard, between the legs, as the cute young woman holding me whispers soothing words in my ear. I keep standing, crossing my legs in pain, and as I groan I think about narrative frames. I think about how to use fiction as a tool to navigate life, how to use it to evoke the reality you want to live. And I think about pain. There has been a lot of pain lately. But some pain can be transmuted into something else.
I tend to write using lots of commas, sub clauses, parenthesis, and a very passive voice. What does this mean? Is not the write question (or the right question). That would be to forfeit the advances made:
[…] the “political lesson” is that the hegemony of power is socially effective because of its entirely phantasmic hold: it is a spell over us that can be broken rather than a secret key to be discovered. – Oliver Harris.
I think, in part, I am mimicking another voice here. It is not unimportant. This is also the place of a double agent and the host body. What gets transferred in a kick? Who hurts more the next day? How do you go about rewriting reality? The danger of these questions is that they might make you think there is an answer. There is not. There is writing.
– J Lundberg