(A place for writers)
There should be a place, a naked place, a clothed place, a place with windows and blinds. Where we’d never have to read aloud and if you called Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, “Lydia,” everyone would still know who you wanted to discuss. In this zone, this zen play-ground or field of flowers or beach of stones, all persons would hold intelligible conversations about tangible subjects (see: unless high, when intangibles become like the chocolate cake your mother makes every year on your birthday). There would be rooms of sofas for communal use, and endless floor space, and various sinks, cupboards, showers, hideaways for thought or reading or writing or just plain sitting.
We’d tape up a hand colored sign in language that stated “Expressly no Conservative nuisance on this property.”
We’d clap our hands and all rejection letters whether paper or pixel would become fake plastic flowers that continuously appear in hats or waiting hands of lovers. Or all the paper could be constructed into a paper igloo where it was snuggly like your grandmother’s freshly permed hair.
Think about mediums and poof, you’ve got type writers, steno pads, Moleskines in various colors (all black), computers, napkins, envelopes, insides of knees or elbows.
There’s maybe a sign out sheet for the time machine or maybe not. But, there’d be a time machine. And we’d hang that fellow who said, “No honor among thieves,” because we’re all thieves in this burrow and we’ve got a system and it works for us. We also have egos—petting is more or less encouraged.
Don’t forget the great exile of impotent book store chains with their archaic organization like genealogies (see: race, gender, interest). We’d catalogue things by last name, damnit. Fuck Dewey and his decimal too.
We’d race to the coast of our village, our mirage, our garden of daffodils and melted caramel light. Take all the flat bed trucks on roads or off roads. Take those cycles, skates, trains, camels, horses, father’s shoulders on a summer day.
The sun rises, sets, rises, sets, shoots across the sky in an arc that spells the alphabet.