Written in blood

September 25th, 2007
I don’t consider my writing is real unless it’s in red journals from Pearl River in New York City. Yes, it’s an affectation, a superstition, an aesthetic preference picked up from a revered writing mentor. I can’t help it. I have to have a row of ready-to-write-in red books lined up on my desk. Red for opening your veins and letting the secrets out. Red for words that burn a hole in the page. Red for the dress I was wearing when I met my first true love the first day of school when I was 14. Red for regrets that never fade. Red for rage. Red for midnight wine. Red for Isaac Mizrahi fuck-me pumps that I feel silly wearing. Red for sirens in the night that remind me to live because death and danger are our constant companions. Red because my heart is beating in time with yours and yours and yours and yours.

One Response to “Written in blood”

  1. andrew says:

    there used to be a band locally called the Archetypes. they were sort of a deadhead phishy self-indulgent group of guys who suddenly got hold of the BAND HANDBOOK that said “we are now artists – mere mortals cannot decipher our elevated creativity. we must speak slowly and indifferently to them so as not to frighten them.”

    We made up our own band and gave ourselves nicknames like brinks (armored car) shasta and raw prawn.

    We called ourselves the Irradiated Cells. We never played anywhere — just promoted our make believe non-existent band. To separate ourselves from the poseurs that fancied themselves to be the next Grateful Dead — our slogan was “better RED (communist symbol) than dead (dead logo)”.

    It is the only red story i know except for Red Riding Hood and the Red Pony and those did not happen to me.