The beak is broken, but the lips on the face of kismet enwrap rapturously anew: it is as though I have rediscovered writing, as I once had. As I remember reading Dostoevsky for the first time as a child, a nihilistic sponge betrothed to stark realism; seeing humanity in a new sincerity, in new words – my young world beheld in unscrupulous mesmerism by the potential of how it’s possible to write people with all of their psychological idiosyncrasies, with vivid descriptions giving way to subtlety and beautiful fragility. A wonderful darkness juxtaposed against the naïveté of light. And I had plenty of subtlety and fragility for a young writer. In fact, that’s all I had. But no matter – after all, if Fedya could write them, if others had written them before in such a manner, it must truly be possible. I could see the colors coursings in rampant directions along their gray, printed skin because they were written as such; meant for color lacking a qualifying spectrum. I could make my attempt, then amend it, then rewrite it, then restructure it, then throw it out, then draw it out from the waste bin, then burn it, and then begin again.
This is how I feel today. This is what came upon me tonight.
Burning. Suffered through. Renewed. In love again with how the words can build beings and gods and beauties and trifles and sands that stretch to enormity and waters emasculated to droplets in puddles.
Fuck Omsk, give me my acclaim now, without it. Give me my advance. Let me buy some top shelf booze, let me serenade a little. And then, only then, let me write you something great.
——–I’ll write you a new beginning.
New Cohen record coming 01/2012