Contributor: Jack Caseros
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I hope everybody knows that this was never personal.
Look, nobody likes having their lives retold from another perspective, especially one that is chilling and removed; nobody likes being made out to look like an anti-hero, especially when everybody else is cast the same way. I know you fucking hated everytime I made a character that sounded like you. But I hope you know, it was never you.
How could I imitate or even try to recreate those I love and care about? Is there any reason? Why would I attempt to remould you, when I am well aware that re-creation is perversion. I would never threaten your sanctity to me.
And that is because I believe in the holiness of coincidence—the universal karmic meddling that places you and I in the same space and same time, which may form a relationship, and, if persistent, a bond. Look, you mean more to me than literature. If I ever crossed your path, I have recognized you as a fragment of the Absolute.
Just like when Conan O’Brien pointed you out for an Audiencey, and you pouted on camera, not even laughing once. You mouthed the words ‘not cool’, and he only made fun of you for saying it. Really. Stop taking fiction so fucking seriously. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.
And take it from a man with a tapeworm. A kink in your digestive tract is no light joke.
And what about you? Do you think I never checked your Myspace page? You think I never saw your tribute to our time together? The song, the photos, the quotes and all. You had them all on display, for strangers. You were poised, too. You meant everything you said for those other people. But what about me? Do you know why I say anything at all?
Look, I know speech is useless. Communication is ninety percent farce and nine percent lying. So why do I inscribe all my bottled thoughts on paper?
Maybe because I don’t want to remember all the hours I spent awake throughout a night, uttering epiphanies into my bedsheets—
Maybe because I don’t want to brood over all the things I never said—
Maybe I don’t want to die without anybody knowing what my life meant, even if that body isn’t me—
Maybe I want you to read my thoughts louder than I could ever screech it at the top of my lungs with my mouth pressed up against your ear—
And for all those utterly uncontrollable reasons, I spill my gluttonous memory onto the blank page.
So you see, it’s not about me, or you, it’s about the Voice. It speaks on its own. I don’t make it up. It’s not me. What? I can’t be crazy. I am too normal to be crazy. Please. Believe me.
Look. The story is about a girl who meets a guy, and doesn’t turn out to be what she is. Isn’t that any relationships? It’s a general observation, a window unto life—you remember, how I always say art is a mirror—well this is one of those time—the observations are only the shiny surface of a deep lake. You know what I mean?
Wait. Let me finish—
Who the fuck do you think you are?
You come into my face, and tell me that I’m no better than a fucking rose, or a star, or some weird poetic shit?
Look. Look. Look. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
I want you to hear me ‘On Behalf of Every Person Who Has Ever Taken a Person…they’ve loved for granted’. You insult me by claiming that I can be simplified to some weird, ugly character. You make me sound so two-sided, like I have no third—or fourth!—dimension. Do you think I just roll out of bed to meet you with a smile? Am I here to serve you complaceny, like, a passing handshake?
Is that what you want? I can jerk you off, but it’d be much easier if I just have to shake your hand.
Alright, well, stop being so fucking stupid. All I hear are excuses. You’re making up your whole argument as you go, aren’t you? If you probably don’t mean anything when you write, then you definitely don’t mean anything when you’re apologizing to me. How can I ever believe you?
Why would I? Take your shit and leave. Flush out! Get out, piece of shit! Want to write a story? Write one about a innocent girl who kicks you out for transforming her into a bitch. Grab your stuff and go.
Leave. I’ve read the story already. It’s very touching. It made me cry, so you know what? I’m prepared. I’m ready for anything. You have nothing more to say to me. Go and speak to your blank pages and your stupid fantasy worlds. Go finger-fuck your keyboard. Give it all your lazy ass lust.
Wait. Where are you—
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Jack Caseros is a writer and ecologist from Mississauga, Ontario. His first novel, Onwards & Outwards, is available as an e-book.
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ON BEHALF OF EVERY WRITER
WHO HAS TAKEN INSPIRATION FROM A LIVING MUSE
I hope everybody knows that this was never personal.
Look, nobody likes having their lives retold from another perspective, especially one that is chilling and removed; nobody likes being made out to look like an anti-hero, especially when everybody else is cast the same way. I know you fucking hated everytime I made a character that sounded like you. But I hope you know, it was never you.
How could I imitate or even try to recreate those I love and care about? Is there any reason? Why would I attempt to remould you, when I am well aware that re-creation is perversion. I would never threaten your sanctity to me.
And that is because I believe in the holiness of coincidence—the universal karmic meddling that places you and I in the same space and same time, which may form a relationship, and, if persistent, a bond. Look, you mean more to me than literature. If I ever crossed your path, I have recognized you as a fragment of the Absolute.
Just like when Conan O’Brien pointed you out for an Audiencey, and you pouted on camera, not even laughing once. You mouthed the words ‘not cool’, and he only made fun of you for saying it. Really. Stop taking fiction so fucking seriously. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.
And take it from a man with a tapeworm. A kink in your digestive tract is no light joke.
And what about you? Do you think I never checked your Myspace page? You think I never saw your tribute to our time together? The song, the photos, the quotes and all. You had them all on display, for strangers. You were poised, too. You meant everything you said for those other people. But what about me? Do you know why I say anything at all?
Look, I know speech is useless. Communication is ninety percent farce and nine percent lying. So why do I inscribe all my bottled thoughts on paper?
Maybe because I don’t want to remember all the hours I spent awake throughout a night, uttering epiphanies into my bedsheets—
Maybe because I don’t want to brood over all the things I never said—
Maybe I don’t want to die without anybody knowing what my life meant, even if that body isn’t me—
Maybe I want you to read my thoughts louder than I could ever screech it at the top of my lungs with my mouth pressed up against your ear—
And for all those utterly uncontrollable reasons, I spill my gluttonous memory onto the blank page.
So you see, it’s not about me, or you, it’s about the Voice. It speaks on its own. I don’t make it up. It’s not me. What? I can’t be crazy. I am too normal to be crazy. Please. Believe me.
Look. The story is about a girl who meets a guy, and doesn’t turn out to be what she is. Isn’t that any relationships? It’s a general observation, a window unto life—you remember, how I always say art is a mirror—well this is one of those time—the observations are only the shiny surface of a deep lake. You know what I mean?
Wait. Let me finish—
ON BEHALF OF EVERY PERSON WHO HAS APPEARED,
IN PART OR IN FULL,
AS A CHARACTER IN A PIECE OF LITERATURE
Who the fuck do you think you are?
You come into my face, and tell me that I’m no better than a fucking rose, or a star, or some weird poetic shit?
Look. Look. Look. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
I want you to hear me ‘On Behalf of Every Person Who Has Ever Taken a Person…they’ve loved for granted’. You insult me by claiming that I can be simplified to some weird, ugly character. You make me sound so two-sided, like I have no third—or fourth!—dimension. Do you think I just roll out of bed to meet you with a smile? Am I here to serve you complaceny, like, a passing handshake?
Is that what you want? I can jerk you off, but it’d be much easier if I just have to shake your hand.
Alright, well, stop being so fucking stupid. All I hear are excuses. You’re making up your whole argument as you go, aren’t you? If you probably don’t mean anything when you write, then you definitely don’t mean anything when you’re apologizing to me. How can I ever believe you?
Why would I? Take your shit and leave. Flush out! Get out, piece of shit! Want to write a story? Write one about a innocent girl who kicks you out for transforming her into a bitch. Grab your stuff and go.
Leave. I’ve read the story already. It’s very touching. It made me cry, so you know what? I’m prepared. I’m ready for anything. You have nothing more to say to me. Go and speak to your blank pages and your stupid fantasy worlds. Go finger-fuck your keyboard. Give it all your lazy ass lust.
Wait. Where are you—
- - -
Jack Caseros is a writer and ecologist from Mississauga, Ontario. His first novel, Onwards & Outwards, is available as an e-book.
Author:
Jack Caseros
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