af William Burroughs
Yes, for all of us in the Shakespeare Squadron, writing is just that: not an escape from reality, but an attempt to change reality, so the writer can escape the limits of reality.
What’s the big secret?
The secret is a reliable time-polished device in story, usually reserved for the end. So where is this wondrous secret they been hiding from him??
There is always an enemy, or we (me and all my relations, rather a select gang) would not be here.
Only thing stirs matter into life, and life into action – lights – camera is opposition on some level (drugs, aliens, child molesters, dissidents … and we who must protect ourselves against the idiot reations of the Moron Majority).
The irritation brings forth culture pearls of common sense.
(Above is highly confused.)
Ah yes – perhaps I am a hybrid with an alien.
“They” conceal this?
Who are “they”?
The Aliens, of course, and his father – under heavy coercion.
His mother suspects:
All right, Papa Hemingway. Give us an ultra-short.
Here we are under a tornado watch – and what happens? What event is precipitated by the watch?
(Folks pick through their ruined homes – and after the tornado – a bottle of Absolut, and the sun comes up.)
Look here, Papa.
Now, look, it’s the time for miracles.
Facts I can testify to, from personal experience and observation: Many of my best effects in writing are due to this beneficient essence: I can see no way out of a literary cul de sac [blindgyde] … a few drags on the green tit [at ryge en joint], and I see multiple ways out, and beyond.
Do I want to know? I have tried psychoanalysis, yoga, Alexander’s posture method, EST in London, Scientology, Sweat Lodges and a yuwipi ceremony.
Looking for the answer?
Why? Do you want to know the secret?
Hell, no. Just what I need to know, to do what I can do.
What do I have to say?
You have been lied to, exploited, cut off from your birthright.
Can we ever look each other in the face?
I am willing. Are you?
Give me the answer to a question, I tell what the question was.
Nobody but a fool wants to know what the secret of the universe is. Or thinks that he could understand it.
One thing: It is not out there, dead, to be discovered – but out there alive, to be created.
Recent dream? The dream sugar like a sort of custard [budding], unbelievably delicious. In one part of the flat, biting mosquitos and flies. Bad omen. Biting flies in a dream are said to be a presage af serious illness. Who lives will see.