An Eloquent Penis Gets Writers Block
Dragging your fingers across the keyboard looks like this: qKGWVLAEHGSDj≈ƒ ∫√b>. You might as well be using your penis.
Some words of advice I received on the tropic of cancerous writer’s block: (Which is an imagined block. It’s not a tangible thing like a football block or a road block or a lower intestine block. The latter, by the way, is referred to as “blockage.” Does that make “blockage of the brain” applicable? Probably not, but it is a good politically correct alternative to “retahded, kid.” Because “mentally challenged” is redundant. Aren’t we all “mentally challenged?” It’s not as if someone walks the earth mentally unchallenged. “Of course I have all the answers! I’m Mentally Unchallenged Man!” Or woman. Or whatever that third, fourth, and fifth thing is. But I don’t want to go down that path. There’s too many dicks.)
ANYWAY, the words of advice: “Just start dragging your fingers across the keys. Even if you have nothing in your head at that moment, your fingers will start to formulate sentences. And, if you have to, start typing a phrase like, “I have nothing to say. I have nothing to say. Eye have nothing to say. Eye have notable to say. Eyes are notably to say. Eyes are notably touché. Eyes are fuckity fuck fuck. I promise. It works. I promise. It works. I promise…”
HOST: Welcome back to “Writer’s Block.” We are here with world unknown writer, Aaron Atadero, discussing his process of breaking through the proverbial walls of blockage. So, Aaron, all writers experience this momentary lack of stability. Well, maybe “momentary” is the wrong word as some writers never recover from the block. Like Harper Lee. Or John Kennedy Toole.
AARON: John Kennedy Toole killed himself not because he had writer’s block, but because he was blocked as a writer by publishing companies. Let’s not say a lack of published work equals a lack of work. Consider the alcoholic mess of that completely unlikable lowlife Charles Bukowski. He was fifty-one when his first novel was published. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t working. Or that he was blocked. You really need to pick and choose your words better, dude. Is that why you host this show? Why aren’t you writing?
HOST: I write. I write everyday. I take my mind to the proverbial gym and we build that muscle up.
AARON: Ok. Two things, dude. One: the word proverbial is way overused. I’m aware that you cannot remove your brain from your head and sit it down on an elliptical machine while it does thirty minutes of cardio. I understand a metaphor without you having to explain the attempt to me. And two: I don’t use my mind to write at all. I have no idea how it’s done. In fact, I’m barely present.
HOST: What? What are you saying? That you…
AARON: It’s the fingers. The fingers do the walking, the talking, and ultimately the writing.
HOST: The fingers.
AARON: Yep. Apparently you just drag your fingers across the keyboard and, voila! You’re done. Those little genius digits have written everything. The only reason I’m talking to you now is simple. Fingers can’t talk.
HOST: Uhh… I…
AARON: There was a day when I thought I was writing all that stuff down. But I’m not doing it at all. What I discovered is my fingers communicate with me telepathically, and I push the buttons. I’m just taking dictation. These are the real assholes responsible for every offensive thing that has made it’s way to the screen, paper, websites, and beyond.
HOST: That sounds insane. Literally. You sound crazy.
AARON: No, that would be my penis and balls that sound crazy. I was told long ago that my mental health was completely under the influence of my crotch, so, I’m not really even frowning at you right now. It’s my curmudgeonly cock.
HOST: I see.
AARON: Essentially, I’m like Terri Schiavo. I’m personally not responsible for anything I do. If it wasn’t for my crotch and fingers, I would be lying in a puddle of my own waste, drowning in slobber.
AARON: Have you ever seen “Weekend at Bernie’s?” Wait. What’s that?…
“Millions of years ago, in my previous incarnations, I must have been related to swans…”
Jean Sibelius. The mentally unstable, and all around a-hole, composer of “Valse Triste.”
“Valse Triste” has been selected by a Pandora algorithm. It’s unpleasant. The fact I have noticed it’s unpleasantness is counterproductive to it’s very existence. The reason this classical music is playing at all is to provide a sound bed that I can write to. Something to ignore, and yet something that drowns out the clicks, pops and groans of the comforts of technology and aging construction. Because silence IS deafening. And it fucks with my chakras or feng shuis or whatever it is that I tap into that provides me with juvenile observations. Because everyone knows the direct line from party food to farty poo starts with the subliminal messages of those Satanists, Mahler, Mendelssohn and Mozart.
But this. ONE two three, ONE two three, VON two three, EINS zwei pee, FUCK i ty, FUCK I TY! “What the hell is this shit?” I say aloud. The music becomes horribly present. Like a woman that sees you working, but still enters the room like some stage actor, twirling into frame while doing the hand jive. “Don’t mind me,” she might say. “I’ll just be sitting over here minding my own business… Oh my god, look how long my labia is getting. We should go have brunch some where, but look how long my labia is getting.”
“Ok. I can’t write with this happening. You win… Who are you?”
“Valse Triste.” I look up the translation. “Sad Waltz.” Of course it is. Is there any other type of waltz? A plodding constant with no swing or energy. It’s disgusting. I think about the dance with the same name. The stiff, encircling of two bodies. The dancing dead. The original “Weekend At Bernie’s.”
The invention of different dances and moves should be left to the people of color. White folk can learn those dances latter, but the choreography itself should be handled by the masters. They have given the world Tap, Samba, Moonwalk, Bollywood, Belly, and The Dougie, just to name a few. A celebration of limbs, sweat and joy. And joy is key. Because the dances white folk have invented are joyless. The angry slam step, the suicidal Irish step, and the fucking box step. That last step is where you pretend there is an invisible box on the ground, and you take alternate steps to the corners of that box. It’s fucking embarrassing.
“What about ballet?” I might hear you say, white asexual. (Or whatever you identify as, because I don’t care.) Listen: I’ve dated a ballet dancer and that shit is simply sadistic. Dead toe nails, shin splints, broken sesamoid bones. Learning a specific dance should not result in PTSD. But, technically, you’re right. White people invented that. (Golf clap.)
“What about EDM? Extremely high white people invent a new dance every night. It’s called, “Dance Like There’s No One Watching,” you might inject, pale skinned alien. Well, knock yourself out. I didn’t say white people shouldn’t dance. Plus, I’m NOT watching…
I guess you have succeeded, Jean Sibelius, with your sad, dead swan in a lake like waltz. I am sad now. Because my over exuberant tangent has drained me of any positive energy I was running on. I wasn’t expecting to get riled up by racially attributed dance moves. What an odd thing to meditate on. Frankly, I really don’t care. Though, it may seem like I did through that ill advised tangent. But that’s not really me. I am just a spacecraft for some racist ass digits. A puppet for some low hanging testicles. A simple vessel for an extremely well dressed and eloquent penis.
“You know, dear boy, I could really go for a healthy serving of labia. Oh, the labia. Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my head can reach…”