My city for the year is a sea of coal stained brick. Rivers overflown in early morning fog and leaves clogging the gutters. Same old men in same old pubs and they all play Beatles and The Doors. Points of no return and grey and grit and dirt but the streets are loud and breathing. What the hell are you doing here? someone whispered in a tenth floor attic I was brought to by a stranger. Who knows. I don’t know. Must I know? Thank you I thought to myself after being abandoned in the rain, for giving me something to write about.
A man asked me how to create qualia. You sit down and write. That’s all. You exhale whatever pent up spirits that is hovering in limbo in that place between your heart and brain and you transform them into symbols that you spit out in disorder on a page. Who cares about coherence. Your heart isn’t in order so why do you so desperately need your words to be. But the men of reason think we engage in witchcraft and obscurantism. They think poets are a waste of time because they hide their points in complex rambling metaphors. Whatever. Language isn’t real. We made it up. We ascribed meaning to a set of abstract symbols and decided that a certain order convey prearranged ideas. You really think symbols can represent the entirety of human nature and its madness? We speak in labyrinths because right and wrong does not exist. There are suggestions. Inclinations. But however elaborate, symbols will never be the things they try to represent.
Your home has grey damp linen and your skin still feel his arms across your ribs. No, you don’t make qualia. It emerges out of your breath and eyes. You shape it through your life and dreams and lack of air. That’s what this place is all about. It is no search for truth or absolutes. It is a time to break your hands and clog your throat and scrape your chin on gritted charcoaled pavements. Speak to strangers who enrage you and get lost inside your head. Last time it almost made you mad. But back then you were still latched onto a notion of a person trapped in time. You are no one. You are nothing and that makes you everything. And that makes you free. And that is all there is.