Below is an entry from a friend’s facebook note.

If I could remove my brain and
strain over a grater and finely strip my thoughts
Onto this page

I assure you

I wouldn’t do it. For there are fold, valleys, neural intricacies,
logical inconsistencies, altered realities, extra-dimensional fantasies
reveries, fallacies, contrived train wrecks and allegories, free associations
finely flecked in fractured aleatoric fissures, nebulous and dense.

Fuck this, form. over substance. NO. First comes the IDEA. You should welcome it to your head, it seems be an irregular visitor. Make it some tea, ask it some questions, draw out it’s naughty secrets and gossip. Bask in it’s radiant warmth. Then, when it’s time for it to go, record it’s novel passing.

But this: this prison you call writing, this FORM. This ideal, this straight jacket. Here’s my Idea, and she’s a large woman. Your tightly woven corset ideals just wont fit, here she spills out on the page, over word limits, paragraph notations, and false ideology of the vacant shell as you whisper sweetly to her “One size fits all.”

This calcifying calamity, crass caricature must cease, ye teacher of English! Preposterous! I shudder at the notion of 30 years of young minds conforming to your ridiculous notions of the acceptable.