Why I Write (A Stream of Consciousness Debacle)

[Note: Stream of consciousness writing? Stream of consciousness writing. It’s been a while since I did a bit of SoC but what the hell.]

Why do I write?

People are drawn to stories, which explains the vast industry for literature. Likewise, most people are social creatures, built up by a surrounding environment of conventional standards; social norms, taboos, and polite culture within the mainstream define the basis of how we measure one another. The various experiences that are shared instill life into our imagination, gives us the ability to expand our understanding of the world we create and live in.

Perhaps the most notable attraction towards literature stems from its ability to portray vast new horizons, the uncharted kind; places that are seemingly impossible and fantastic, freeing the dross of the mundane life to an entirely new level of detail and possibility. That’s part of the substance in living, the appreciation of art and substance, style and innovation; a mere part of human culture and interest.

It explains why, in my opinion, there’s an interest about smut. We really enjoy reading things about the dirty because it’s an inherent part of our physiology. It’s part of our nature, so to speak. Modern society dictates that such things are kept private and in polite society, such topics instill a moment’s worth of bashfulness – we cover ourselves up even in the presence of our significant others, perhaps out of fear for scrutiny, perhaps even out of necessity.

It’s the taboo, the forbidden, the inherently obscure that yields a certain satisfaction for the curious. As animals, we’re built to fear and question the unknown, often times to a hostile degree. Curiosity killed the cat as the saying goes, but herein lies the dilemma: by closing ourselves off to imagination and possibility, life thereby becomes terribly dull and sequential. There is often an unnatural thrill towards the propensity of breaking rules, causing mischief, and as the saying goes it was satisfaction that brought the cat back.

Personally I’ve hated conventional standards and practice. It’s the inner punk within me along with the whole anti-establishment attitude I possess. The linear and the redundant have little to no appeal towards my view of the world. I live in the heat of a moment, consequences be damned, and quite frankly it’s the only comfort I’ve discovered in a world that’s anarchistic both by design and by sheer stream of culture and ideas. Most culture in this decade is short-lived, replaced by whole new trends and culminations.

I suppose that’s part of the reason why I chose to write a memoir about the scene. There’s way too much smut, terrible and/or decent, regarding the practice that it feels a little too overdone. Most stories about the scene are strictly self-centered, an individual chronicle about personal experiences, and less to do about the environment wherein this all takes place. I don’t want to be a part of that fucking circle. I want to break the circle. I want to turn it into little pieces and each the circle raw.

I write because the lifestyle I know isn’t an individual one. It’s a cascade of numerous experiences that often parallel one another, wherein people find a middle ground that draws them together. Connectivity. It’s the basis of every foundation of a movement, an organization, and quite frankly one of the things that first brings ‘people like us’ together.

The people I know? Sure, they’re kinky and devious as shit, mind in the gutter, brimming with personality; by the end of it, that’s just it. People. It’s not a matter of standing out more than it is a part of being. That’s where media depiction gets it wrong – there’s a lot more to be accounted for, the individual and the collective, the different opinions and outlooks, but by the end of the day? We’re just people.

People, in the sense that we’re alive, capable of an infinite array of actions and consequences; our interactions at times generous or selfish, kind or cruel, but all the same by personality and trait, unique and refined. Some of us are carpenters, laborers, and technicians. We cook your food, we fit your clothes, and we work the day shift or night shift.

Yeah, some of us can be assholes. We’re not perfect. We fuck up, cover up, make mistakes and grow from them, and in some cases blatantly lie about them. We hurt one another in ways that are non-consensual (gasp!) because like any other human begin, we can cruel and messed up.

But we’re human. We’re alive. The story I want to tell isn’t about the dirty but about the culture wherein the dirty, filthy and perverse don’t necessarily play into it. Once upon a time there were stereotypes for the other alternative crowds, the rock musicians, the beatniks, and the gay community. Gradually we’re starting to see past that and what with the mystery behind ‘being’ part of the scene, there’s much to be said.

I’ll tell it for what it is. The good, the bad, and the ugly. The whole nine yards. Sure there’s plenty of smut to pass around. If only because that’s part of the whole deal with being kinky. Mostly I’ll tell the same kind of stories that brings us together, the laughter, the tears, and the moments that make us what we are. Human.

Because that’s what storytellers do.

Long live the writers.

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