File spoon-archives/avant-garde.archive/avant-garde_1998/avant-garde.9811, message 79


From: Thivai4062-AT-aol.com
Date: Tue, 24 Nov 1998 12:32:04 EST
Subject: Distorture--Rob Hardin


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  Writing is dissonant counterpoint---the chamber music of nightmares & empty
attics.  It is vomiting in order to savor last night's narcotics.  It is
contamination, the act of scraping parthogenic bacilli from the walls of the
throat & injecting them into the mind of the reader.  It is recoil &
distortion, the sociopathic spewing of fictions.
  
  Whatever i try to say is negated by my mania to explain.  It is this glitch
which divides me.  Am i the cartographer of vacancy, or a narcissist tracing
his own sewage (language)?  Am I writing an ode to sterility, or the self-
summary of an absence?
  
  Without induction, my voice is impotence: it cannot recognize its captor.
Was it you, mon semblance, who stretched me out like a hostage on linearity's
narrow floor?  Or does the fault lie with that doomed escape-artist, the
subject?  Suppose he shrieks, for example---if i attribute his hysteria to
physical pain & then describe it, will he feel the discomfort?  Of course
not---my words will only create another paradox.  I aim at the Father &
succeed in blowing the skin off a metaphor.
  
  When narrative becomes a sealed corridor with a pistol for an exit, the
reader notices a breakdown in his identification with the narrator.  Thanks to
the writer, infection is inevitable.
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