No introductions: that´s better. I have been researching a novel for another novel, working the loop: "Bright Lights, Big City". Rushing through this novel in the Metro, in symmetrical speed to McInerney´s Bolivian marching powder prose, i have found that expensive gold of the soul that is a kindred writer, much more than his brilliance, his a-like-ness, his affinity, someone you could, if transubstantiated memetically at one point be.
Things he says that you have felt exactly, thats the power of a mirror of letters. What I've felt is that darkly quintessential night rambling through clubs feeling only drugs would help me find a propellor safehaven, and that a girl scored at the last second, lika a Michael Jordan clutch gamewinner, would be the only saviour, the blue heaven hologram password in the arm. This perpetually reliving itslef everynight. Even though perhaps last night you found it, again perpetually looking for something that probably is not just a line of coke in the bathroom or fucking a model. Something else, that's exactly what it is. Trance-fixed transfriction of the other. The sex ghost mirrorelectro.
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I hope I am not anachronically living in the coke yuppie 80's a bit passe and cliched, for I also feel the softcore connection with Mcinerney´s partner in crime Bret Easton Ellis. I can´t think of anything else as interesting as girls and parties and drugs and the poetic feelings they arise, that is and will be my theme and in a way it is not undeserving of Robert Grave´s metatheme. I mean: the transformations of “the White Goddess‘, that´s something I can go on about with deep pleasure.
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