(中文)
(31 records of a saddle)
(the saddle feed)
(drops of ink)
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On Flat Surfaces
I remember when I was afraid I’d forgotten how to speak aloud, when the possibility of having a conversation with another person where I reply to them in real time with words that make sense seemed impossible to me. It seemed like the only possibility I had of ever communicating with someone was by writing massive missives. If only I could find someone who’d read my massive missives and send their own, then all my problems would be solved — that’s the kind of thought I’d obsess over, day in and day out. Yet now the physical state of writing, of putting my hands on the keyboard and staring into the words that appear on the screen — it makes me feel nauseous.
It reminds me of how watching television used to make me feel. From around the age of 13 to 19 I more-or-less stopped watching movies or tv shows because there was something about moving images on a screen that made me feel like I was being squeezed into an orange crate launched from a rocket, spinning in orbit around the earth, forced to look down at the happenings of the ant-like people below through a tiny hole between the wooden planks of the crate.
Essays:Contact me at saddleblasters [at] gmail [etc]
