What is a better time to write? I ask myself.
Not from a production point of view, productivity be damned. I am not a professional and therefore not productive. So the physiological effects, as they enter my body to make it function to the benefit or detriment of work, bother me less than the physiological or psychological effect that enters my work directly, mainly because I am not strong enough in my non-existent professionalism, to hold that effect back and or let it produce some desired output. The professional only gets weak in their body, but not in their work.
I die alone, in private.
A professional is one who sacrifices themselves for the client; To a professional any another singular or plural is a client. And what is a client if not the embodiment of the eternal and the many? Residing in the client is infinite changes and edits, and the hierarchy of ever changing bosses and stake holders. A professional sacrifices in public, on the gallows, in full view.
I sacrifice in private bits, in the quietest sense, in the lack of outcome and output, within the unknown. I sacrifice privately to private people who are singular to me (in our shared context).
I sacrifice but not like a saint. More like every mere lover who exists. In making of teas, fondling of t*ts, or sucking of c*cks, or watering of flowers, making unmade bed, washing of curtains, doing the dishes. I lie. I sacrifice sometimes, but not enough, and many times as a bargain, that makes me less than virtuous. I do stroke hair, and I do kiss n*cks, and I do water plants, and I do do dishes, but half the times I just do it as a favour, in a hushed tone, under my tongue. I bargain when they leave the room, and they re-enter asking “what?”, and I reply “nothing” or say nothing and just smile. I fill them with gratitude, and overdo just in bits, so they know. I play politics of licking c*nts, and watering plants, and taking c*cks, and cleaning fans, and drying clothes. I break sweat in the bedroom, I make foul in the living room, but only when the curtains are drawn. I lie.
I commit crimes in private.
I am an every person in that regards. That’s as wide a statement as one can say, ‘an every-man’, ‘a man of his time’, ‘only a man’. I might as well say “I am”, and let you figure out the rest, if you are so bothered. What I mean to say, I ‘am’ a private person, like all private persons. That’s the only ‘am’ I am here; That and a writer and a questionnaire (as text).
I also am not a professional, because in work I can’t think of another.
So I don’t ask what is a better time to write, for sake of responsibility or quality, or from the point of wellness or health. As health matters little to me, I would want to admit otherwise, but in my health I am a professional, doing another’s bidding and delivering outputs. I don’t mix my health with my writing (outside of my disability to let my health affect my writing); I don’t mix them, because one does not mix the professional with the personal and even more so, the professional with the amateur.
I am not asking what is a better time to write, because at certain time the sun-rays will fill the room with light, carrying fresh air, or the heat will let me perspire onto the page, wetting it, making nonsense blots out of words to form a non-linear, creator-less narrative. I won’t romanticize the page, in front of you, as I type on my laptop. I hate writing on paper, my handwriting is barely legible and worse, it has no wisdom in it, or any serious affectation to the letter ‘t’ or ‘g’. My handwriting changes, from letter to letter, from sentence to sentence, even there I lack any properties of a professional, or a habitual, or a healthy.
I am not even asking what is a better time to write in terms of forming habits. I am not habitual, the only habits I have are eating, and masturbating. For sure there are other habits, but for the sake of this text let me lie and say I have only two habits, and none involve writing. I don’t want habits. I want habits, only that they be ‘self-actualized’, and not part of ‘my’ routine. They should rather ride on my shoulders, and I be their ride, stopping only to eat and jerk off etc.
But let me ask honestly, what is a better time to write? Or a better place? Or a better person? Thieves are preferred to dilettantes. The place could be either wilderness or the road. Walk on the road or into the wilderness, but thieves walk with or behind you. The dilettante, himself misguided, walks ahead as your guide, curating your walk, punctuating the scenery, be it the bushes or hoardings, with his words. A thief steals and sets you on a mad chase, through the wilderness or the roads, each turn, at speed’s pace, only to be punctuated by things, as things ought to do. A thief takes you on the long mad chase, and you end up at a puddle by mistake, or by his design, you wouldn’t know, but you take a breather, drink from the puddle. You may have lost him, and you may recall your loss momentarily, but for now you gaze upon yourself in the puddle. While the dilettante tells you, about the species that exist, mostly points at the words, and assures you, the bird is a rare kind, so you go ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’. Then he finally leads you to a canyon, or a monument, none of his making, but he stands there taking credit. Both steal, one steals from you, another steals from history.
Still none of this tells me anything about what time to write, all these are persuasions away from other, but to my question, to my concern, none of these provide any respite.
None of this is true. I had hoped it were true but truth be told, how can you take a man’s word, who admits he doesn’t even know when to write? ‘How' is easier these days, put one word after another; And I have talked enough nonsense, to pass for a semi literate, without suspicion. Or at least that’s what I suspect, that we all collectively play a charade of knowing. I keep your open secrets and you keep mine. We are socially contracted at birth to do so. We make private alcoves in public spheres. We have day dreams and burn night lamps. We write love letters in published texts. We make infinity of one man and statistics of many.
In this see of doubles I keep asking, what is a better time to write because I want to know, do I write about my dreams or my days?
