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belief #1 by Jack Kerouac on Writing:

“SCRIBBLED SECRET NOTEBOOKS, AND WILD TYPEWRITTEN PAGES, FOR YR OWN JOY”
…this is why I write. The harder I write, the more intoxicated I become, and the bigger the need. I think it’s pretty safe to say that that is why artists starve. But I do know that because of it, I am alive  …[continue reading here….]

from Harriet blog:

“For me the answer is that writing makes my heart pound, my hands flutter. It still makes me hungry and desirous and fearful. Because I need the honest beautiful grotesquerie of the world, because I want to stay sensitive. I want to wallow and bounce…”

He is the bass stripped down to a dark rhythm that hums to the backdrop of city lights and black and white urban streets and alleys, somewhere foreign to me that I want to get lost in. My thoughts around him read like the first time I fell in love with banned books and Henry Miller lovingly wrote “cunt.” I want to turn his pages. I want to read the forbidden words he paints in red. A steady and heavy cello across absurd piano strokes crash into everything I’ve judged myself on, every law I am governed by and I am intoxicated by the strangeness, drunk on this existential, loveless affair, this music…

TO READ THE REST, CHECK IT OUT AT MAD HAT LIT (also known as Mad Hatter’s Review) this spring 2015.

(–image from favim on bing.com)

from “Something Dark Like Jazz”–

(excerpt)

…I don’t want anything but to float through the day, but my body is always shaking and then I can’t breathe. They took me to the hospital and some small part of my mind wanted to go. Some small part of me. Small parts—that’s all we really are, aren’t we? And in the grand scheme of things this is all insignificant. We’re just statistics. Facts. Bodies filing into clinics for revival and pills and assessment. A small part of me wants to lay in a hospital bed for the rest of my life, watching tubes feed into and out of me; white coats, white blankets, white. Fix me, medical people.

from the draft