Thus the vanity of writing, the need to see yourself doing it, the clear evidence of script, even if it might be disjointed, nonsequitor, complete crap, whim, what-have-you.
And perhaps I had almost been ready to quit at a time when I needed it most. I mean, it's an easy thing to want to quit. Desperately wanting to go back to school, but for what?
The animal is self-healing, for the most part, and speaks in perfect Shakespearean sentences, so why quit. To quit writing would be like for me giving up meat, or giving up walking or biking, it just wouldn't do. And I'm a product of my time just as anyone else, and the form the words take comes from outside as much as inside, as a way of adaptation to one's surroundings, a kind of camouflage, like the tiny praying mantis taking the underside of the fig tree's leaf, for humans a way of saying, 'hey, I'm okay, I'm not a crazy man intent on harming society whenever the moon is full,' that sort of thing. Which is what got me into trouble in the first place, perhaps, because I'm a writer and have to make that a part of me otherwise I look like I am a crazy, this I know quite well. But if people had said, oh, well, of course, he's a writer, he's okay, it would have been different.
That's what Dostoevksy's doing with that horrible dream of the horse in Crime and Punishment, as if to test you, as if to say, this is what writing is, like the disclaimer, don't let your children watch the following for given reasons, and I myself failed that test, stopped right there, shit that's too weird man. When I've seen enough then I'll come back and read this, when I am inoculated against it. His wife was still willing to sleep next to him (though he wrote at night), maybe that says something of the time and place in which he lived, or maybe he didn't tell her (though she his stenographer), 'oh, just fine dear, just writing a little dream sequence...'
My own writing is not filled with creepy horse head dreams, but still I wonder, it's a weird thing to be doing, perhaps for the main reason that it brings no value, it's not a service necessarily, unless you put it in the service and entertainment industry, but still most rational people, even myself, ask why, what's the point, and it's never really something to bring up when people close to you ask you the question, 'so what's going on?...' Or you're a polite bartender, who should keep his writing to himself when it gets honest and real, when the writer takes risks of self-revealing.
Okay, eat sausages from the broiler while burgers cook for the next meal, shower, shave, dress, fold a servile clerical light blue Jos. A. Bank shirt and place it carefully into a legal pad notebook so it won't wrinkle, and it's off the servile anonymous job, ho hum, fuck me.