Inner Logic

I've been sick all this past week with Bronchitis. Sucks. Haven't been able to write. It's always difficult to pick back up when I've fallen out of my rhythm, but there's nothing else to do. I'm happy with the work I've put in so far. I've drafted about 14 pages and only covered a little over two hours of time in the story. I like how that's going. The reader is with the character all day long. The day itself is filled with tension and release and is slowly building to its ultimate climax (no pun intended), the aforementioned psychedelic blow job. I can't really guess how many pages it will take to finish this day off. It will be at least thirty or forty. Maybe even fifty. At this rate, I can probably fit three or four days time in the novel. The question is, should those days be successive, or should I jump ahead? I'm not going to try to answer that question yet. I'm just letting the story take me where it will.

I'm writing in a continuous vomit-like stream which is something that I've never done before. Typically, my process is to spend an hour sculpting a paragraph, laboring over every sentence to get the language just write. But this style does not allow me to craft writerly language-- the language is all in the character's head with no authorial intrusion. This is scary because I feel that one of my greatest strengths as a writer my use of descriptive language, but it is exciting because I feel that the writing in this novel is different from anything else, not only anything else that I've written, but anything else that I've read. And I'm encouraged that it's coming so fast. I already have 14 pages and I can see myself after another week of strong work having 40 or 50. And when I go back to revise, I can still sculpt the language. It will be different from any revision process that I've experienced before, but I think I can achieve a lot through revision. I'm already excited about it. I think I'm going to continue to vomit it out until I've finished the first section, this first day, culminating in the psilocybin trip. Then I'll go back and revise and try to figure out where else I'm going with the novel.

One thing that's been interesting as I've been writing is having my character speak to different people toward whom he has different attitudes. His speech as well as his thoughts as he is speaking changes drastically depending on who he is speaking to. So far he has conversed with his roommate, a peer who he disdains, a girl who he has a crush on, a peer who he admires and a teacher. Perhaps some excerpts. Here is our hero with BJ, a "rich cunt" who wants a bag of weed.

I take my tray outside and sit under a tree. The applesauce is watery and the chicken patty isn’t that warm but my body hums with gratitude for the nourishment. I look around at the little social pods scattered across the grounds. There’s Kirsten in a half-circle with her goody-good friends Rebecca and Sarah. They’re all wearing sweaters. Rebecca in an olive wrap-thing, Sarah in a red and white striped tight thing short enough for a band of tummy flesh to peek out when she leans back on her hands. Kirsten in that white fuzzy one with the big buttons. I’ve always wanted to touch that sweater. It looks soft. Shit I love a girl in a sweater! If they only knew! I imagine Sarah using both hands to pull open Rebecca’s sweater. What color bra should she have? No bra. The air is damp and a little chilly. Her nipples will be swollen. Sarah will want to warm them with her mouth. She’s bending toward them. What’s this? BJ Shula is standing in front of me. I bet I know what he wants.

"What’s up man," he says.

"Chilling. You?" I don’t like sitting down with BJ standing over me so I stand and lean against the tree trunk.

"Where you been? Haven’t seen you around school lately." He’s smiling way too big. The boy’s heart must be flying. I bet his mother cuts his hair. The way he’s smiling at me and shifting his weight from foot to foot makes me nervous. But I kind of like it. Nobody feels comfortable talking to each other, do they? We would be better off if nobody ever invented language. BJ has a crop of pimples circling his temple. It’s sickening. I look away. Sarah and Rebecca together. Where’s Kirsten? Oh, there she is walking toward the trash can. Putting a stick of gum in her mouth. The way she walks—man—does she even know? What is he saying to me?

"Oh, yeah, well. I’ve been around. You know," I say.

"Right, right," BJ says, nodding too big, as if I have just said something incredibly fucking profound. Get to the point man! Those pimples! I don’t think I can take it!

"Just been smoking and shit, you know. Drinking tea," I say to encourage him along. That sweater. If only she would let me rub my face over that sweater. I feel as if I can smell her from across the grounds. What’s that? Did she just look at me? Was that a little smile? A private little smile? Yes, I think it was. I very much think it was. It was a private smile. She’s keeping that smile to herself. She’s not going to share that smile with Rebecca and Sarah. Man—that kills me! That smile! Shit. Don’t freak about it. So what. Whatever. What’s going on here? BJ. Right.

"Hell yeah man. That’s what I’m talking about." This kid cracks me up. "Hey, about that—I was wondering…" He’s ducked his head and is whispering. It kills me.

"What’s on your mind, friend," I say with a big smile. I’m going to make him say it. This awkward fuck.

"Yeah, I was wondering if, you know, I could ask a favor…" Shit. I can’t take it anymore. Those pimples!

"Of course, man. What do you need—an eighth?" I say it louder than I need to so he’ll blush. He does. This cunt positively fucking kills me. I snap a twig off the tree and concentrate on peeling its bark so I don’t have to stare into his constellation of zits.

"Actually I was thinking… more like a quarter." He says it as if I should be impressed. Little shit. Does he even know? He doesn’t know a fucking thing.

"Sure, whatever. I guess that will be a ben."

"A what?" This cunt.

"A hundred."

"Cool, cool." He looks over his shoulder to check if anybody’s paying attention. Shit! Relax man! He’s making me nervous. I kind of like it. He has so much money in his wallet. This rich little cunt. His mother probably gives him a hundred for making his bed. He hands me five twenties. His fingers are shaking a little. I like that. I fold the money and stuff it in my back pocket.

"Cool, so should I…"

"I’ve got your number," I say. He nods, looks around, shrugs his shoulders, nods again and finally walks away. He walks like a rich little cunt. I realize I don’t have his number. Whatever, he’ll get his herb. I sit back down to my lunch. This applesauce is the thing. It looks like shit, but man. I need to eat more fruit. Fruit is the fucking thing. What I need is a fresh orange. Like one from the commercial, bursting with flavor. Like from the commercial—I could just jab a little straw in and suck it down. Man, orange juice—that’s what I need. I seriously got the dregs. One of those oranges that peels so easily. Then you can rip it into little wedges. My fingers actually feel sticky with the imaginary juice. I rub them over my jeans. The food is gone except for the second sandwich. Two vegetables—what the fuck! Should I eat the sandwich? I wonder if Dylan has found anything to eat. Maybe I should save the sandwich for him. That’s what a quality mate would do. Well I’m nothing if not a quality mate. I slide the sandwich into the pocket of my hoodie, pick up my tray and walk toward the trash can. The bell will ring any minute. I’ve got to make a decision. Should I show in English class? I could maybe handle that. The money in my pocket gives me confidence. Maybe I can get the spot behind Kirsten. Find a way to put my hand on that sweater. Oh, speak of the devil. Here she is now.

And now, with Kirsten:

"Hi!" she says. I wonder if Kirsten is a virgin. That "Hi!" is the "Hi!" of a virgin. Right? I hope so. Is it stupid to hope so? I don’t know, but I hope so.

"What’s up. How many bunnies did you have to kill to make that sweater?" She laughs. That laugh!

"Actually it’s just regular wool. But it’s really soft, see?" Damn! She’s holding out her arm. I stroke her upper arm. It is soft! I can feel the warmth of her arm beneath the sleeve! It’s so warm! Why is it so warm!

"Not bad, not bad." My voice sounds stupid. Touching the sweater has weakened me. I’m over-conscious of the sun shining on my head. I had shade under the tree. This is a whole new environment. What should I say? What should I say? The bell rings. Shit, she’s going to be leaving.

"Are you coming to English?" I don’t know, am I? She picks her backpack off the ground at her feet and slings one strap around a shoulder. Her hair gets caught a little and she pulls it out. I can’t stand it! Should I go? I don’t need to now, do I? I’ve touched the sweater. I can’t be around people now. I need to go to the mineral museum. I need to take my private touch into the mineral museum. She can take her private smile into the classroom. And we won’t tell anybody at all.

"I don’t know. What are you doing in there?"

"We’ve been reading F. Scott Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby. Have you read it?" Her voice is hurried. She’s nervous. She might be late to class. She wants to go. But she’s staying. For me! She wants me to come to class. She wants me to come and sit behind her and stroke her sweater all class. Well, I can’t let her have me so easy.

"Nah. Any good?" She’s going to bolt any second. She looks at the door. The last group of lunch-eaters are shuffling through.

"I like it." She touches my hand, a flash. It’s hot. "You should come!" Her voice is hot. Her fingers are hot. Her cheeks are flushed. Her blood is on fire. Why? Is it because I touched her sweater? Well, I can’t come. Especially now, after that touch. It’s too much. I can’t just fold. She is one second from bolting. Her body is leaning toward the door but her feet are planted. For me!

"Cool. I’ll have to check it out sometime. But I think I’m going to jet. It’s too nice a day to spend in class. Plus, I haven’t read it so I can’t, you know, participate in the discussion…but hey. I’m having a few mates over to the place tonight, why don’t you…" I can’t believe I’m saying this. Yes! I’m the fucking shit!

"Yeah, okay, give me a call later or something," she says and she pulls a pen out of her pocket and grabs my hand. What is she doing? Her fingers are on fire! Shit! She’s writing her number on the back of my hand! The ink is cold! Her fingers are scalding! I can hear her breath. The hair around her ears! I can smell her! Her smell! Shit—she’s going to be late. I can’t believe she’s taking this time. She’s going to be late and she doesn’t care. She’s probably never been late before but she’s going to be late this time. For me! I’m the fucking shit! What is she doing? She’s staring into my eyes, squinting at them. So cute!

"Are you high?" she whispers, crinkles her nose and smiles. That smile! That same private smile! She’s sharing it with me! And that nose crinkle! What is she doing to me? This is too much. Okay, what? Oh, am I high? Ha! Am I? A little, I guess.

"I mean, I smoked some before I came," I say, but she is gone, running up the steps and through the door. Her hands as she runs! That crinkle! The hair around her ears! The smell! The sweater!

I think those excerpts demonstrate pretty well what I'm trying to do with the fluidity of consciousness. In a minute's time, our hero becomes a completely different person. With BJ, he is distracted. The relationship serves to boost his ego. He feels cool because this poor kid is asking his help in obtaining weed. He builds his ego up further by talking down to him and embarassing him. Then he's with Kirsten and he's like a child. Suddenly he's very uncertain about his coolness. And instead of being distracted, he's hyperaware. Not only does he hang on her every word, but he applies to their exchange illogical significance. The "secret smile" is immensely meaningful. The fact that he touches her sweater means that he does not need to go to class. That does not make any objective sense, but is profoundly sensible to his subjective inner logic. As the story and drug-use proceed I expect that inner logic to become more and more bizarre.