Author: pimlico

At first i didn’t believe I was the author of my own story. At first I couldn’t even say my name out loud.

It’s weird, this issue of authorship. You don’t realize its depth, is breadth, until a symptom points you to it. I couldn’t say my name out loud. I couldn’t say any name out loud. Names scared me tremendously.

Authorship, authority, authorization, authoritarian, authoritative. I couldn’t think of myself as the author of the narrative of my life.

Can you be the author of your life if you don’t think yourself capable of being the author of the narrative of your life? Can you think of your life except in terms of narrative?

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I had to start from the very early days. “The day i was born my dad said, ‘What an ugly child’.”

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Who authorizes this blog, this post, this narrative attempt? Who authors it? What authority does it carry? For whom?

You have to start with the pain. The pain always comes first. The pain is an absolute — it doesn’t allow contestations. The pain is the bedrock of interpretation. All interpretation builds on the uninterpretable: the foundation, the primus movens, the pain.