Everything Sexy: Everything about Writing


Everything Sexy: Everything about Writing

An essay from a great writer

The Sex was very good.

At a hopeless mishap and a tired old lump on my foot I crawled out of my bed with no clothes on. I flew out of the room naked and no one, not a single soul was out. Five o’clock, ticking like a bomb, was frosted over the lamppost by the sidewalk. I blended in, on an afternoon shift by the street. People are dying here. People like Mrs. Gulliani who took her sandals away to pawn for a piece of bread. Toto, a small kindred spirit in a shape of a Rottweiler, jumped over me with his paws feed unto my shoulders. He had a very huge persona like Emily Dickenson. But for Mrs. Gulliani, Toto was one heck of an asshole. She said it with her lipstick pressed on her Monday cigarette. Smoking it.

The Sex was over, or so I write this.

I lived there, the corner of A. Roces and Masaysay street, on a fucking shapeless quarter for 400 residents. Old, aged and precious, Molave stood there gazing and gawking with a fireless face full of rotten gears and expressions. The way it seemed for Mrs. Cantuba, Molave has a hope for a renovation. But she was wrong. Molave is dead.

The Sex was there inside me.

It was very true the way I formed my sentences, the way I write my edgy introduction, that writing has evolve from its infantile facade to its very modern themes like sex and moral degradation. It was the War, the war against old modernism. I am referring to the revolution that happened before the latest, Modern Revolution. It was the revolution on Classicism in Literature. I may have been a practicing Chemical engineer, but I know the Revolutions. In fact I was there.

The sex was even better when I entered the scene when I was fifteen, a teenager who was embellished with hatred and indifference, in irony. It was the best of times, and the worst of times, it was the age of reckoning, the age of dissonance: Charles Dickens was so good at this word that I put my first writing in line with his. The marriage between two minds like this is greatest and of highly posted that every philosophy is welcomed in the mind’s eye. The way the winter looks, every cloud with snow has a silver lining. The view is much better when that silver lining disappears and everything went vague and disproportionate.

In writing, where I was entangled literally with my hand shaking and scribbling on a mad piece of parchment, I knew where I was and where I am heading too. I considered writing, when I was young, my profession, something that I am good at, something exquisitely good about me. There I was on a window pane looking at a pale picture of my back yard, the birds the Mayas beautifully sang in chorus like a dream. On the table where I kept everything, laid a pack of old written stories, mostly were fantasies and gory murder and vampire stories, I had one thing I didn’t have that time: Age. I was fifteen, young but talented. I was not accepted on a school paper because I was too critical about my writing as if it was my life, my blood and sweat. On that windowpane, that backyard in front of me, on the table, I profusely scribbled words. And during that afternoon a lot of them were CHAPTER ONES. Everything was a beginning. All, as mentioned, were chapter ones of my novels that didn’t exist on the physical world. But in my world it was a voluminous collection.

My writing was surreal and bloody, with words borrowed from the great Dickensian race, Austen was an exemption. It was not plagiarism; it was my effort in learning the way on how they put words on everything. It was a play of literally everything. The wondrous sounds of the pen, my fountain pen making descriptions of place, loathing on a loaf of bread, sinking it deeper into the pages to create a doorway into my soulless mortuary, everything was just everything. And as long as I can remember, everything was sex. Everything was a revolution.

Everything from there went very sexy…