I did, in fact, enter the Commie Pinko Writing Contest. And now that means I actually need to write something. A nonfiction something about ghost pictures. Or, tangentially about ghost pictures. Or somehow occupying a place together in the Great Venn Diagram in the Sky with ghost pictures. You get the idea.
I feel like I've been thinking about ghosts a lot, lately. Or, I've been thinking about things that used to exist, which is kind of the same thing. I think a ghost is anything that I can summon, behind my eyelids or inside my throat, even though I know it doesn't exist.
I am trying to brainstorm what I might say, so that I am better prepared when I try to say it. But it's very hard to think about writing something without actually, you know, writing something. It's the everything but, which I was never very good at maintaining once the clothes were off. Everything but always just turned into anything goes, which turned into a vague sense of disappointment and lingering smell of cigarettes.
I turn everything into sex. I could probably play "six degrees of sex" in which I take random thoughts and link them to sex, with no more than six connections.
Or I could do something else.