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234 (Hand-written) ToWrite w I rediscovered this text during an inspection of my papers preparatory to donating them to the Edward P. Taylor Research Library and Archives of the Art Gallery of Ontario. As you'll see, it was written explicitly for the reader to read the original hand-written Ms. (!), not a typeset version. In a sense this work was like a drawing in ink, an autograph , not intended to be reproduced like a drawn lithograph or etching. But really, even more than doing a drawing, in writing this I had no anticipation of a possible reader. I wanted to write. And yet the masturbatory conceit that it was mainly (or only) for me is part of its form. You'll see one page of it reproduced here, but the rest, contradicting my original intention, is typeset. Why? Louise Dompierre referred to the "artifactual" nature of this collection (more history/archaeology than scholarship) and to the fact that frequently in my writing the embodiment or occasion of the text is part of its nature and content. This is so in this case. Our decision to typeset it is a form of censorship. Reading the text in type means a second remove from the original flesh, making the material cooler and the private more modestly public, less voyeuristic, more literary. The typeset reproduction of seeds cast on the ground seemed ironically life enhancing. And literary it is. The author thinks it is a fine piece of writing. Only Art which has personal value for the artist can be of value for others. But don't think this is a diary. It's not. It's writing. Writing (even with a computer) is a solitary, private, manual activity, narcissistically inducing an emission from a dark interior to the light of a visible exterior, ejaculatory, even if a public (which cannot be present at the writing) is aimed at. Stylistically this text is similar to "Something You Might Try," "Around about New York Eye and Ear Control" and particularly the text for my Chatham Square record and the scripts for Rameau's Nephew... . We could have gone further back: when I was twelve or thirteen I wrote some scripts for plays and skits performed at Camp Calumet on Lake Boshkung in Haliburton which forecast this monologue style. I'm sorry that the great Toronto poet bpNichol, whose work "(Hand-written) To Write" slightly resembles, cannot read it and tell me what he thinks. M.S. Trying to write. Starting to try. Trying to start. To write. Writhing too. Start! I'm writing! I'm trying. It's trying. I'm trying to, right? Rite. Keeping from thinking of fucking Lucy by writing. Not for long. Not for longer. Not for harder. I'll write about fucking Lucy instead of thinking about Lucy, about fucking Lucy so I won't stop writing and jerk off thinking about fucking Lucy. I'll just put this pen down and get this penis up. Pen is so is penis. Thinking of fucking Lucy. I'll be back in a few 235 T 236 The Collected Writings of Michael Snow minutes. Back soon to continue, might, writing instead of something else. Instead of doing something else. Then. Writing to the occasion! Hard riding. Hard to handle. Hand writhing. Hand Ridden . Come and go on. Decided to try to write again. Right again. This time I'm going to write in order to write. There are many other things I could do, it's not just a question of wasting time. I've decided to write not to avoid doing something else (like thinking of fucking Lucy). Why should I avoid thinking of fucking Lucy? It was so wonderful, she's so small and smooth and rounded, my cock felt so... Yes, I guess the reason for avoiding thinking about fucking Lucy is that it keeps me from writing. Or it might. After all, I'm still writing. It gets so hard writing about sex. I'd like to start with some gentle fore-writing and gradually after a while get to the hot and moist, slipping in and out writing. That time. I fucked her from behind, her cute sweet buttocks bumping pushing nudging my belly as my cock slid in and out of her (I my hand on her, one finger in too) fuzzy mushycunt. Start again. Writing like that is like coming when you unzipyour pen. Write again. Wrong again. The top of my...


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MARC Record
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