——Of course it is different with me, in that I only write from my thoughts, and only in particular those thoughts I can begin to articulate. So it is originally a very small content base I have, though it tends to aggressively seek analogies, to make neighbors.  And I  leap to conclusions,  I happily wander, and harvest, and collect details, in suspense, that await a context–which, miraculously, may hinge upon the most incidental reflection of all.  This is the story of inspiration.  I am he who thereby owns the entire history of his reflections, should that miracle occur.  But I am cautioned, I don’t even begin to write on subjects that I have no thoughts about.  I restrict myself to my own thoughts--sure, this is quite the obscure way of working, and you might say arrogant basis on which to proceed. But it is honest. I never stand back, but depend upon my own prejudices, for these are internal and if they can be borne out, they get a hearing. I am in charge, as I set out, and then I learn what is possible, so therefore I am determined to be humble. I am always wrong, employed as a speaker, upon that basis. For example, I don’t stand back and write about books I have read, but I write from the thoughts I have while reading these books; and it can surely happen that the book itself is not even mentioned. Everything inspires me in this way, for the opportunity to reflect on its meaning, against the background of pure mystery.
——Sure, it’s kind of rickety, I am focused for awhile, and then only propped up, but I am in pursuit of what can be brought into my thinking, and worked on, like to gain access to that background. I am fundamentally a researcher, that’s probably the simplest way to put it.  I mean, I even watch television shows with great interest, especially I like to watch news shows in the afternoon, repetitive talk shows–but only dramatic thoughts generated will find a place, in the dire commentary I will make. Or I can speculate on the weird television itself, usually in relation to some other basic experience, canning them together,  like in one jar, seeking the synthetic thought that lays bare the skeleton of them both.   Tentative forms of narrative, a story like The Soap Opera Rewind Experience, or impassioned, absurd monologues like People Who Watch Movies, are always headed somewhere, stranger than life, from which they appear to have been drawn, as if part of a larger mystery. I am always working on the same thing, always the same explorer.  I do not write about what I know, but precisely I seek the other direction; I seek to find out what I don’t know, in this process which has me enthralled. Half the time, more than half the time, I am running from my own thoughts, but anything I have lingered over, found pleasure in scuttling into language, is going to gain such favor that it longs to become part of a larger book, and I have learned that topics in isolation will often yield their own field of play. And I have learned that it is up to me to pursue these associations, and build the literature.
——But it is most important to point out that not everything gains entry. From my point of view, hardly anything is even expressible, for I only talk about what I can clearly articulate. And since the category of interest is my own thoughts–well, only what I see as  truly my own thoughts, as incontrovertible, is going to get put down.  Or what is rightfully ambiguous!–I should include that too, the expressible which is yet unresolved, as if ringing in the annals of the language, that is here too.  And yet, one might say this is a slim basis of operation. And yet again, I am swamped with work!  My difficulties at the outset are enormous, but my labours are often refreshing, they are comical, they are so prideful and entangled with such a set of personal, procedural rules. It seems that way, doesn’t it? But this is my brilliance, that I isolate and only choose to talk about what I can really,  you might say effectively talk about. No matter how skimpy, how traceable to my own personality, how blushingly obvious, even–I figure this is my job to render.  And what I mean by effective is not in the cheap sense of being viable communication. It is in the sense of being able to achieve coherence, relatedness among the aspects of my scattered meditations; effectively, I am building fictions that are truly original. That’s right. What I can make coherent, I will, and of course this is from my point of view, I have no consideration of readers, certainly at the point of construction, even more certainly at the point of inception. Although maybe at inception I am in a discussion with someone, or a multitude of voices; but at the point where the text is most clear, that is where I am most forlorn of readers, surely. That is where I achieve the true result, the triumphant obscurity, and effectively am ready to publish.
——But then again, this talk is in the nature of exploring the topic deeply, or imaginatively,  so I am often confused, if you want to know, and I suffer, impale myself upon all bad outcomes, wade through every swamp the imagination can provide, and my writing is at every stage until the last quite provisional, for, you see, it explores only the possible meanings that can be foisted off on life, and then, out of what seems like an antique sense of honor, only presents what is possible to say clearly.  Of course then at the last my writing is defiant, and threatens to be significant. My writing entails, for the reader, a series of suggestions, which are so earnestly expressed they seem like finalities. But these only arose in the writing itself, having finally emerged concretely in the phrasing.  That is the only place, there is in fact no reference.  My writing is the only case of itself, and it has rolled up the carpet.  It is truly original, that bears the awkward repetition. It went through this process, of starting in the thoughts of the writer himself, and chosen by the writer as culpable for expression, and then building upon the expression, to find further possible realms, for what can only be made of words. A refinement, the pure fiction of expressible thought.
——-Of course, this is just simply not writing at all in the ordinary sense, but it is some kind of unparalleled creation, escaped of its origins.
—— For the author is stranded, and only writes to save his thinking. He collects images and uses them as his subject matter.  Especially those that are susceptible . . . to a literary rendering. This seemingly most expressive author is actually only talking about a portion of what he has pored over and then sifted, but he is obsessed–or better yet, I should say, he has trained himself over the years. The language has indulged him, and so far does the language continue to indulge him, that realms of thought are reached once the writer has crossed that barrier,  where language informs thought. There is the content which is utterly unique, which only he has received. Now it is in this form, and the disputes must begin–not only as to what has been said, but why in this manner, and if this language is merely tentative . . .