I stumbled and there, Literary Heist Was. A focused dream of thoughts that are actually thoughts. I wrote a book called GENOCIDE. It picks up where reality (such as it is) left off. And everyone believed it was time to say HIV is not a problem. And now we move on. Not so fast. On that note, GENOCIDE begins. The camps, like the real ones, are there, but I do not consciously go there. I am there when the camps became carnivals with rights and lights and naked women. Then, the killing begins. All of that with machines rendered spotless, and when you look at the machine, you see your reflection just as the machine kills you. Not unlike a gift from the normals. My ass got raked in of all places, San Francisco. How dare I bring sex into it. Because it would be there, and it’s my imagination in a stuffy industry that won’t grow up. I do not care if there was sex. Heaven forbid. My purpose was to connect sex and death. Why. Because Readers drive me Miss Sugar Nut in refusing to see that that reflexion is not that far away, we are on our ephemeral way there now, it is not a secret that the public health camps project has enlarged their facilities some of which looks exactly like the Chinese prisons with the fences and the guards and the dogs, and a human tragedy.
I put the sex in because no one would publish it until I did. I am a whore. I set out to question stuff as to why certain stories got published and who was on the blacklist this week. When I trot around NYC with my manuscripts, and interacting with those homo sapiens sapiens called Gatekeepers, I hear a lot of rhetoric and hand wringing and the long chill of Amazon, but if I say the word — BLACKLIST — not an eyebrow is raised in the room. But they will never own it. They have hated us marginals from day one. They pay a lot of money to keep us out. If I say: I believe in talent, it is always misconstrued as opposition to publishing’s fetish with race. GENOCIDE is not about race. It’s about institutional murder, and systematic indifference. And that indifference is a violence to human race, and it’s a story everyone should write. I believe in talent. Period. They talk the talk. But they do not walk the walk because publishing is filled with people who are afraid of everything. Publishing is where imagination ends. — Tim Barrus
