So hows things

Not too cold, I hope.  The news never mentions the weather up where you are.  So, I have no idea how much snow you are under.  Ben unseasonably warm here.  Until the past couple of days.  I’ve moved back to north county.  Out of downtown.  Closer to more jobs I haven’t been able to afford.  Every job too expensive.  Too high class.  And no one will take brown paper bag me.  My place is great.  You’d love it.  There’s a separate room that works as a dining room/studio.  The living room is so huge that even with my excess of furniture, I can’t really come close to filling it.  I’ve been seeing my new shrink.  That’s been going well.  I think.  At least it has brought my inability to handle the outside world under control.  I’m still afraid of myself.  But at least it doesn’t show as much in the world.  Creating more problems that I don’t need.  It never stops amazing me how many people come to this coffee house to pick up women.  Of course that may have something to do with the large percentage of customers who are marines.  Especially near the end of the month, when they don’t have the money anymore for prostitutes.  My neck is killing me. Must be sleeping funny.  Some guy.  Not a marine, by the way.  Tried this pathetic line the other day, trying to pick up a friend of mine.  DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY FRIENDS CALL ME? TRIPOD.  That’s very inviting.  There’s too many guys here tonight.  I hate men.  I honestly don’t know why all women aren’t lesbians.  Yeah, sure it’s the penis thing, I know.  Still.  And I’m not sure that the penis is worth all the insecurities that go along with it.  Then again, I’ve never had the pleasure of a penis.  At least not the same as a woman has.  So I’m basically talking out my asshole.  Ankle tattoos and tongue piercings.  Kill them all.  Moonwalking and breakdancing for the late 90s.  By the way today is the day that was a long time coming.  No, I didn’t get laid.  You didn’t feel the earth stop did you?  Lisa Marie asked for a divorce from Michael Jackson.  And she said that, yes they did have sex.  There is still hope for me.  How much money do you think she will get from him?  And will it be for emotional damages?  If not, it should be.  The question of the minute is, are marines as stupid in bed as they are in the world?  Oceanside’s finest.  Pulling over Mexicans by the carload.  If half the energy that is put into being “original” was put into figuring out who these people really were, they would actually be original.  Sorry that was a cheap shot.  Cheap, but not undeserved.  People running around with great outfits and their arms in slings from patting themselves on the back.  Coats.  Hats.  Boots.  Shirts.  Hair.  Jewelry.  Tattoos.  I just got a chill.  And brain cells, few and far between.  Maybe it’s the salt air eroding them. Maybe it’s a cultural evolution.  Survival technique.  To compete with the movie faces nature to the area.  There’s a girl here who hopes to be top nun in a convent.  Aim high.  When I was looking for an apartment a few weeks ago, I saw that the Top Gun house is for rent.  I wouldn’t mind living there, just to say I did.  But, I’m sure it’s bigger bucks than I could hope for.  Piss time.  The tea, you know.  Worse than beer.  Had a revelation in the bathroom.  I wonder how many of the world’s great ideas came while the guy had his dick in his hand.  they say we think with them, so why not.  Marines are stupid.  Not earth shattering.  I know.  Maybe it’s me.  It wouldn’t be the first time I was accused of being an asshole.  Close minded, or some such.  But it really pisses me off when I see people, who are making their image on apathy, repeatedly check themselves in the mirror.  How’s the hair?  Jacket?  Shirt?  Are the sideburns even?  Yes, I know.  It’s just an image.  They are no more apathetic than I am a brain surgeon.  But, if you want an image, pick one you don’t have to constantly contradict.  Apathy is not conducive to worrying/caring about what other people see and think about you.  The suits are here.  the suits are here.  Better a suit, than a lie.  It’s only 930 and the town is closing up.  By 10 everything will be closed.  Except this place, which closes at 11.  I think Dannie just walked in.  I wasn’t paying much attention.  But I thought I saw her jacket come up the stairs, out the corner of my eye.  Boy, I’m good.  Well, not quite.  I was doing laundry the other day.  Amazing.  And I had my glasses in the shirt pocket of the shirt – how odd – I was wearing.  When I pulled my last thing out of the dryer, something fell and hit me on the foot.  I looked down, and it was the case for my glasses.  So, I looked in the dryer.  There were my glasses.  With one lens popped out.  They must have fallen out of my pocket when I put something in the dryer.  I’m hoping that it was the last load that I put in.  At any rate, the lenses seem none the worse for wear.  And all I have to do is get a new screw to fix the glasses.  My friend Dannie.  Who is really just someone I hang out with, for company.  She frightens me.  It’s like a sociology experiment.  She is firmly entrenched in the group of people who pierce, tattoo, and generally make themselves up in the 90s counterculture of popular culture.  But, she doesn’t know it.  She believes the sincerity of her convictions.  She believes herself and all the pretenders that surround her.  I don’t know how she would handle the real deal. She doesn’t know how to handle me, and I’m not particularly the real deal.  And I’ve never shown her everything.  I have always held things back because everything would be an overload for her.  I think she sees me as another lifestyle choice.  Without any conception that I have no choice in this at all.  If I have a choice, it wouldn’t be this life.  This is something I can’t escape.  Frankly that’s the way it should be.  If you can escape your life choice, it’s wrong.  Destiny may allow detours, but hell it all comes out in the wash.  Be what you have to be.  Anything else is a lie.  The Big Lie.  Bad faith.  But how many people have something they have to be?  Let alone know what it is.  This is what it has to be for me.  Coffee houses.  Drinking.  Books.  And writing.  Here.  Richmond.  Boston.  All the same, except for the stage directions.  Can you do or be anything else?  At base.  I can’t.  It’s in my blood.  Like the red.  The best news of the night.  I just went to the bathroom again.  No, that’s not it.  Give me a chance to finish.  When I was washing my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror.  And for the first time in some exaggerated period, I looked into the mirror and recognized who was looking back at me.  HEY, I KNOW YOU.  WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?  I MISSED YOU.  The tension in my neck has eased.  The apathy has returned.  Hopefully it will remain.  It’s only when I care, that I get into trouble.  Apathy doesn’t leave room for pain.  There’s just not enough caring to let it in.  Pain needs a weakness to grab on to.  I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.  What’s your name again?  Let’s go back to school.  Just classes for fun, to start with.  To help defrost the brain.  I need to rediscover what it’s like to be in a classroom.  Where ideas are thrown back and forth.  Bright and ignorant.  Where I can come across things I’d never have thought of, because they weren’t from any planet I inhabit.  Ideas that need an entirely different evolution to have a life.  An evolution not possible in my environmental conditions.  Have I beaten that horse enough?  Did I mention the seratonin?  My shrink wants to medicate me to raise the levels of seratonin in my brain.  That’s the happy chemical in my brain.  He wants to try this since the basic depression has not eased.  My discomfort in public has eased greatly.  But, I still have the hardest time living with myself.  The problems are still the same.  I just don’t care enough anymore to create the anxiety type reactions.  No matter what happens I’ll wake up tomorrow and still be Moose.  And if I don’t wake up, what good would the worrying have done?  Moose is the only thing that matters.  Anything that doesn’t help Moose isn’t worth the effort.  I am what I am.  I’m Popeye the Sailor Man.  I’m really full of it tonight, aren’t I?  As opposed to what, I suppose.  I’ve spent half the damn night in the bathroom.  Nice tits.  Too bad you’re stupid.  At least that’s my very deep belief.  I could be wrong.  People have been known to be very different in private, than they are in public.  But I’ve got to tell you, I really hate stupid people.  That put on any act that will endear them to whoever they are with at the moment.  Because they have so little sense of self, or selfesteem.  I may have no selfesteem, but unlike so many of my compatriots, at least I have a self to esteem.  And it is only that sense of self that makes me aware of the lack of esteem.  Well, it’s closing time.  Sweet dreams.

Spoke to you on the phone this afternoon

Night you’re time.  Or your time.  Afraid I said too much.  Big fat smelly guy alert.  Afraid that I gave myself too much away.  Opened up to a fatal blow.  At least if I were to use literary form.  Though my dream last night did scare me.  Deeply.  Almost physically.  And just this moment I remember.  Vaguely.  A dream I had several years ago.  In Richmond.  About you.  And a baby carriage.  A hope.  A fear.  A premonition.  Who knows?  Especially with a complete lack of details now.  I did remember writing down a note on the dream, because of its vividness.  When I get home I’ll see if I can find that note.  Probably not.  But I do save most everything.  Every scribble like it’s a deposit in a blood bank.  And it is.  Role playing games.  Make me sick to my stomach.  Petty escapism.  If you’re going to do something, then do it right.  Nothing petty.  That’s a cop out.  Petty is lowest common denominator.  For the unimaginative.  The feeble minded and feeble willed.  And I’m neither.  I hope.  But, delusions would not be the newest fad.  Pump Friction.  Would I move back to New England.  A startling thought.  New this morning.  Not the ideal place.  Not a comfort zone.  But, that’s not taking you into account.  Not taking my new life into account.  My first taste of stability.  The fears and monsters of the area would surely be diminished, if not destroyed now.  Do I sound like I’m trying to talk myself into New England?  Maybe I am.  Feels like it to me.  But, then again, I’ve been wrong before.  Imagine if you will.  And not religion, too.  What are you trying to say?  Suspenders and a belt is back.  Image limited.  Wallet chain.  White t-shirt.  Boots.  Shaved head.  Intellect in reverse proportion to image presented.  It only comes around every 9000 years.  Maybe next time.  Played Trivial Pursuit this afternoon with people from the coffee house.  I the man.  I the man.  I got a lecture the other day about saying I’M SORRY.  Because I’m not sorry.  In the pathetic sense.  I am not a sorry person, a pathetic person.  I should, above all people, be aware of what it is I’m saying.  Connotation and denotation.  That whole writer thing reaching up and biting me in the ass.  Thank god I’m a waiter on the side.  Actually, if only I wasn’t.  If I actually had the time to write.  The leisure.  Lie-sure.  As much as is gained by working, ten times as much is lost.  In times inspiration has to pass by.  In experiences put off or never entered into.  In routine  Routine and writing work in opposition  At least my writing.  Live writing.  Life flows.  Pulses.  Explodes.  To limit it to time and form is to straight jacket life.  To break the legs of what you’re trying to bring to the page.  Fits and starts.  Like every subject.  Brooding boy is her on his image motorcycle.  Still no date.  That’s a guy with no personality.  Time to fetch yesterday’s paper.  Missed Foxtrot.  Hope it’s in the comics out there.  It’s very drugged.  Off, but back soon.

Back.  Miss me?  Of course you did.  Then, who wouldn’t?  Even the billions who don’t know me, know their lives are empty.  That vague, nebulous, unimaginable emptiness of soul.  Let me fill your hole.  Oh my god I look like Stevie Nicks.  Must be Mary.  Isn’t it somewhat sad, when bib boobs are your best recommendation?  Peanut butter cookie.  I hear it calling my name.  Maybe I need to change my medication.  Or begin enjoying it more.  Start making sense.  What state has the most blondes?  Bleached, or otherwise.  Like wow.  You still can’t have my Bud Light.  Here’s a thought.  There it goes.  Wave bye bye.  Maybe bowling.  Or pool.  Surfer hunting.  Like wow.  Mmmmm food.  Time to eat the cookie. Cooookie.  Cookie Monster.  Barney.  Big Bird.  Larry.  Fife.  Barney.  Again.  You only live twice.  But only when a spy loves you.  Or was that when you’re a spy in the house of love?  Or Love Canal.  Sweater girl.  Sweaty girl.  Not a bad thing.  Depending on the situation.  Bring me to the map room.  Free fall fun.  I just don’t understand.  Thank god, 12 years after 1984, I still don’t have a big brother.  Though my little brother is bigger than me.  But I’m not sure that’s the point.  Your stomach should never stick out farther than your boobs when you stand up straight.  Pregnancy excepted.  A look of fear.  Here comes the pick up routine.  More painful than gymnastics gone bad.  Or synchronized swimming.  Please explain to me how that became considered a sport.  Olympic, no less.  Bridge’ll probably be next.  Naked chicks.  Not a bad thing.  Unless it’s Ken Sullivan.  Ken Sullivan.  Both set up, and punch line.  What did the Hindu priest say to the hot dog vendor?  WOULD YOU PUT THAT UP MY ASS, PLEASE?  Or maybe that was the Catholic priest.  I can never remember.  Drugs you know.  And would you introduce me?  Giggles are humor hiccups.  Sorry.  Women shouting my name.  Normally not a bad thing.  Except they’re carrying pitchforks and torches.  Bang on the castle door.  What exactly is a crumpet?  Not fade away.  Buddy Holly.  Not a very good waiter.  That’s what happens after you plummet to your death with someone named Big Bopper.  Kill the marines.  Or at least give them a personality transplant.  Ego reductions.  London is not a country.  The caffeind is tearing up my stomach.  My empty stomach.  Been on the move all day.  No time for eats. Too skinny.  Too vacant.  She is too happy.  Must be my cynical Boston nature, but euphoria makes me suspicious.  And so there it is.  What?  No one knows.  The actual name of god.  The Word.  I think it’s Fred.  Think of god’s ego if he demands rituals attributed to him.  Brooding guy alert.  Pride is a vice, if not a sin.  One of the seven Brad Pitt sins.  did you know that he thinks Pittsburgh is named for him?  Maybe armpits.  Ireland.  The land of ire.  What exactly does that mean?  Nice butt.  But crazy redhead.

So, I’m back again.  Too often perhaps.  But I didn’t want to leave you with such nonsense and stupidity.  then again you should be very used to nonsense and stupidity from me.  One of my charms.  Maybe what I’m best at.  Very fragrant woman just came in.  Watched the Red Sox lose to the Braves 8-0 this morning.  For this, I got up early?  Missing out on all the fun again.  Just have to make my own fun, to catch up.  The cost of everything.  The value of nothing.  Youth.  Great moments in the obvious.  The artist of the month is here to take down her paintings.  They are ugly as hell.  Not ugly as sin.  Sin is quite often quite beautiful.  Really bad dyed red hair and Birkenstocks.  Anorexia girl is here for her shift.  Not insults.  Insights.  Anything that is askew is a hint as to why.  In the smallest detail disjointed, is everything.  Function is dysfunction.  Dysfunction in function.  Being in nothingness.  Oh, it suddenly got deep in here.  Hip waders anyone?  Goggles soon.  Snorkel.

Just got off work.  Later today.  Feeling like shit.  Coming down with something.  Annoying navy guy to the right, working his incompetence on another woman.  He strikes out more than Rob Deer.  Silly boy.  Sprains his arm, patting himself on his back.  In the middle of the MOST GUYS DO STUPID THINGS, BUT I’M DIFFERENT, A SENSITIVE GUY routine.  See my nuclear watch.  Exactly how many women enjoy this guy talking about how wonderful he is?  Never asking about you. Never stopping to let your respond.  We all do it.  All have our routines.  The things we say to get laid.  That we think best shows off our feathers.  Pot calling the kettle black, in an era when neither pots, nor kettles are black.  Such are the tortures of life.  Something like Chinese water torture.  In a pool of electric eels.  Watch how amazing I am.  Too bad you can’t change channels to find something interesting.  Then it would probably be like real TV.  No matter how many channels, still nothing on.  Sorry nobody home.  Feel like I’ve been writing forever tonight.  Only one page.  Experiencing the illness time warp.  The Space/Time fractured.  Broken down into slices.  Enabling you to feel as much of the illness as possible, without exploding.  Sometimes that’s a good thing.  Now, it’s not.  Time to pack up.  Head home.  Medicine up.  And try to sleep it off.  Wish me luck.  Time to hit the mail with this.  Mailing Monday.  Promise.

All I have to do is smoke this cigarette and die

But I don’t even have the pleasure of the nicotine rushing with the bullet aimed at my head.  The hole in my stomach that had me puking blood talked me into quitting.  And now I’m not sure why.  You know.  Not everything is a big deal.  Big hairy man with ponytail is nothing but a big hairy man with a ponytail.  Nothing more.  Not a person, place, or thing with the power to affect the lives of the people whose scenes he walks through.  So why don’t you suck each other off and pretend that it matters.  My father told me to find a woman who was willing to throw herself on a hand grenade for me.  Does it count if I find a woman who I’m willing to throw myself on a hand grenade for?  Hope so.  Except she does nothing but litter firecrackers.  Stealing the bonzai and my glory of death in the name of Love.  And I’ll just keep driving her to go meet the guy she’s in love with.  Look out below.  Another firecracker.  Ow, that hurts.  Did you catch the number of that mosquito?  Or why I feel like licking her asshole.  Thank you mistress, may I have another?  I can still get an erection.  I must be a very bad boy.  Put your left foot in.  Take your right foot out.  Kick ’em when they’re up.  Kick ’em when they’re down.  I once fucked Charlie Brown.  And isn’t Peppermint Patty an after dinner mint, with no pubic hair on your teeth?  Taking half the fun.  But at least I still have half fun.  Half full.  Half empty.  What’s the difference?  Either someone else has your other half, or you have someone else’s other half.  And that’s not fair to either one of you.  Cell phones for the socially challenged.  Quick must talk about work.  And the way grandma’s diapers smell.  Must have more coffee.  This is too much like reality.  Beggars and pimps. Same thing.  Hookers and politicians.  Ditto.  The cook.  The thief.  His wife.  And her lover.  One hell of a dinner party.  Don’t forget to bring the Grey Poupon.

Yohoho and a bottle of scotch.  For the little firecrackers.  Powder burns.  A nasty sore.  And people telling me WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING.  If you neglect it long enough you’ll bleed to death.  But, I’ve been denied bonzai and the glory of suicide in the name of Love.  As boyfriend calls to say MOM, I GOT YOU AN ART SHOWING.  While I’m over for dinner.  Another scotch.  Please.  So far the bleeding is only external.  And what’s next?  Mozart’s Requiem.  So, I’ll drink myself to sleep tonight in her bed.

So good to talk to you

To hear your voice.  You sounded happy.  Tired, but happy.  Sitting here sipping coffee.  Actually waiting for the coffee to cool enough for sipping purposes.  Morons sitting in front of me.  Talking Megadeath.  Rollercoasters.  Maybe I’m slow in the head.  But.  It still amazes me how selfimportant people can be at a coffee house.  All while never talking about anything.  Just farting out the mouth.  Metallica now.  And how hardcore they are because they remember Metallica’s first album.  How cutting edge because they were into it before the scene arrived.  Though Time has changed nothing.  Ponytail.  Facial hair.  No clue.  Oh well.  It really shouldn’t surprise me to see people proud to point of advertising about how unique they are.  If you’r not sure about how cool I am, why don’t you let me tell you.  Fuckers.  But, still good to hear from you.  Because.  And it occurs to me now that you never let someone or something else define you.  It was always just you.  Never writing checks with your mouth that your ass couldn’t cash.  You know what I mean.  So funny hearing stories here.  How you never want to start a fight.  Opposed to violence and the rest.  Then pushing people’s buttons, amazed when they react.  Because they don’t mean their rebellion or anger.  Don’t believe in it.  Just something the think they should do.  The discussion just turned into YOU KNOW WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE, BECAUSE THEY’RE THE ONES THAT SAY HI TO YOU EVERY TIME THEY SEE YOU.  A very sad statement, I think.  Is the best you can hope for, a Hallmark greeting?  Someone who says HI to you?  That’s not a friend.  That’s a stranger with courtesy.  A friend is someone who is willing to hold your hand while you walk through the darkest moments of your soul.  That’s a friend.  Every night here is a night of car stereo wars.  Hear how loud.  See what I’ve done to it today.  More non-talk.  Oh well.  But to tell the truth, I’m pretty fucking happy.  Despite the poisoned barbs.  And the hole in my stomach.  Coffee.  Cigarettes and hard liquor.  Work thing is great.  Not really.  But pretty stress free.  Money’s not great, but it works for me.  To pay bills and the like.  To eat even.  Imagine.  More stereo talk.  That’s besides the point.  As if there was one.  Now it has degenerated into puffing themselves up by insulting others.  Even if it is a bit more creative than stereo talk or the reciting of Austin Powers dialogue.  And still nothing has been said.  Oh well.  It’s not my problem.  Just background noise.  LOOK AT HOW UNIQUE I AM.  HOW ALTERNATIVE.  How nauseating.  How predictable.  It’s like street theater where the script is in the playbill.  Or is it just the summer season reruns?  Now speed limit laws talk.  Maybe you get fucked over because you set yourself up.  Then ask for it on top of that.  Car talk.  At least it hasn’t gone into drinking bragging.  JUST WAIT UNTIL I GET MY VESPA.  And you’ll still have to wait for me to care.  Surprise surprise surprise.  And a bottle of rum.  Johnny Walker.  Or Jaegermeister.  Rock on brother man.  The incest love fest is starting to break up now.  Maybe.  Hopefully.  Ugly girl.  Golf shoe face.  Small boobs.  Bad hair.  Just took stinking poop.  I walked into the after smell.  Watson and his I’M SO ARTY painted puzzle car have just pulled in.  Oh well.  Sometimes I just wonder why I don’t start doing drugs again.  I just don’t understand anymore.  As if I ever did.  Or wanted to.  Feel the hole in my stomach growling.  And I want or need a drink.  Just to numb the brain and body to the stupidity.  My superiority just amazes me sometimes.  Must we continue to talk about all our automotive/sexual fantasies?  Now engines.  Bigger tires.  Louder stereos.  That’ll never get done.  I’m gonna do this.  I’m gonna do that.  But only in my mind.  And people here think of.  Well, they’re not quite sure how to deal with me.  How to handle the poisoned barbs.  Nothing overtly personal.  But shotgun aimed.  And I’m so funny.  How do you react to a guy insulting you, when he makes you laugh doing it?  Limp dick without a clue.  My fear is that the vacuum inside will force them to implode at some point tonight.  Now the aerodynamics of trash blowing round the inside of your car when the windows are down.  Continuing to plumb depths previously unimagined.  And if you aren’t excited enough already, Andy BUT MY FRIENDS CALL ME TRIPOD BECAUSE MY PENIS IS SO BIG just showed up.  On the other hand he’ll just wander around for a little, until he realizes  that no one wants to talk to him, and he’ll go home without a fight.  HAVE YOUR FRIEND PRETEND TO HIT YOU.  I USED TO GET INTO FAKE FIGHTS IN HIGH SCHOOL ALL THE TIME.  There’s a resume builder.  Pretending to cut off the hair of the girl who sits in front of you in biology class.  Thought that went out of fashion with nap time in kindergarten.  It’s open mic night here tonight.  Scary thing.  A serious talent vacuum.  LEARNED GUITAR TO GET LAID AND IT DIDN’T WORK, SO I SHALL VENT MY ANGER ON YOU bands for the rest of the night.  No sincerity allowed.  JUST CALL ME TRIPOD has been rejected by all inside and is working his way quickly through the girls outside.  He’ll be gone soon.  Too transparently stupid.  And bad facial hair.  When it’s for no reason other than 90210.

Tonight should be a bit more sane.  For now anyways.  Not only is the ink blue.  Blew.  But I’m sitting inside, so no silly talk tonight  So let me tell you about the fun and games after I signed off last night.  Nothing.  Until I saw the, or one of the, clerks from AM/PM here.  Melissa and I would always joke with him when we went for smokes or slurpee or beer or candy.  Then Cara showed up.  We talked for awhile.  Then Carrie showed up, too.  She is Cara’s friend.  And way out of my league beautiful.  But we have had good times when we have talked, in the past.  The three of us talked.  Cara went home.  School in the morning you know.  Carrie and I went out for very late night Mexican food.  Yummy.  Both the burritos and Carrie.  Like I said though.  She’s way out of my league.  Too bad.  For me.  So fucking beautiful.  I’ve miscalculated though.  I gave her some poems to read.  Now she occasionally has that terrified WHAT THE HELL IS HE GOING TO SAY NEXT look.  When we are alone, it’s all good.  But with others around she always looks uneasy.  What next fears.  Warren, the old hippie, is outside playing some guitar.  Ivan is behind me discussing his newest fantasy invention for submarine propulsion.  And he’s not even able to pass junior college math.  At least he isn’t discussing his 3D TV virtual reality invention.  Or trying to pickup young girls in his HEY I’M 30 SOMETHING, LIVING AT HOME, AND MY MOM STILL DRESSES ME style that knocks the women dead.  Or at least wishing they were.  And so on.  Kind of feel like playing a game of chess.  Maybe when Joel gets here.  Joel is skinhead probation for inciting a riot by kicking the shit out of some Klan on video guy.  Madonna on the stereo.  Was Bon Jovi a couple of songs ago, no matter how hard I tried to deny it.  He plays chess well.  Joel, not Bon Jovi.  Though he may as well.  Or some cards.  Or some darts.  Or just with myself.  Warren makes silver jewelry by hand.  Andrea should be here tonight.  That would be good for me, too.  She is way out of my league too.  Then who isn’t?  But we have much more of a connection, than I do with Carrie.  By the way I’ve given up on wearing underwear.  Have moved to button fly jeans.  Still T-shirt and boots.  Same pair of Docs.  Remind me to get money from the ATM.  Broke.  Lenny Dykstra just came by.  Left with the paper.  Ivan you never have been laid, have you?  Well, maybe if you paid.  And I’m sure some people would say the same about me.  And they’d be as close to right as you can get.  It’s been so long, my hymen is growing back.  And I never had a hymen to start with.  What the hell.  No Doubt on now.  Burning holes in the gut.  Both No Doubt, and black coffee.  Gonna try to stay away from the smokes tonight.  Not sure though.  Your Love is Like Bad Medicine.  Gay marines having a smoke.  Of each other.  Not until later.  And if there’s any luck about tonight I’ll only have to play with myself only once.  I’M TOO COOL FOR WORDS CAR TALK BOY just arrived.  Really just very insecure.  Keep talking so no one else can show you up again.  That’s his fear.  A hangover from having moved here from England as a kid.  New kid in school, and a foreigner to boot.  The DO ANYTHING TO MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU has stuck with him.  Pretty girl and no stink in the bathroom.  Did I ever tell you that you were.  I was so in love with you that your shit was like roses.  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve said anything yet.  But damn it sounds good.  Car boy has turned talk to last night’s chess game.  Chess is big here.  For now.  Star light.  Star bright.  Kick me in the balls.  Almost like sex.  Just in the other direction.  I just really like boobs.  As if you needed me to tell you that.  Again.  Why exactly is it that after the years and miles that we are still so close, and the ones I came to Richmond with have nothing in common with me?  Why is that?  We are the ones who shouldn’t be talking.  But here we are.  And Animal Who.  Not the way I imagined the world when i loaded the truck from Mass.  Those nylons are just way too dark a shade for her legs.  Or she needs to shave.  Badly.  I think it’s the nylons.  I hope anyways.  Ivan making the WILL ANYONE TALK TO ME rounds again.  Such is life.  Not mine, thankfully.  If no one talks to me I an survive quite nicely.  Quite nicely keep myself occupied.  And a kick in the head.  Because it’s fun.  And why not?  Because.  I don’t know Who’s on first.  What’s on second.  Period.  Nice legs.  No ass though.  Not that I’m horny or anything.  Show me your tits.  Drop your pants.  Bend over, and prove to me why it’s good to be a man.  Then maybe that’s what I’ll be.  Computer geeks are invading.  The weekly trip out of the house.  Socially retarded group home field trip.  Now try talking to someone with a face, rather than a monitor.  Resistance is futile.  And so are you.  though you rule the world.  From a modem, like the wizard behind the curtain.  Drugs drugs drugs and a bottle of rum  It is Tuesday after all.  Say a toast for me.  English muffin and jam.  It up your ass.  You always had a great ass.  Though that’s besides the point.  And quite round.  time to hit up the bank for some money.  Not in the Brad sort of way though.  Sorry.  I’m off.  My rocker.  And an easy chair.  If only I could find an easy woman.

So, a couple of days later.  Early.  Sun not down yet.  And my head is threatening to explode.  Not sure why.  Hand full of Advil has done nothing, except upset my stomach.  Not quite the US beating Russia in hockey, but upsetting enough.  Have to stay awake for a couple of hours.  Then early to bed.  Been up since 530 this morning.  For no reason.  Except to piss me off.  And tomorrow is going to be.  Or should be.  A very long day.  Up smoking and drinking all night.  I hope.  Then call in sick to work.  Because I wasn’t given the day off.  Though I asked for it off.  Call in and get a paid day off.  The reading is tomorrow.  I’m more than a bit nervous.  Scared.  Excited.  It’s my chance to be a rock star.  Though I found out last night that my words.  Well.  This so beautiful that she’s way out of my league, but I want her anayways girl told me last night that she read one of my poems, and it gave her chills.  First time I’ve ever heard that.  She says I have a new fan.  I said new.  You mean I now have a fan.  Unfortunately, she won’t be at the reading.  She is on her way to San Francisco with her family for vacation.  But she did give me her number and said that if I ever wanted to do something to give her a call.  Not bad, for an ugly guy huh?  She was on Star Search when she was younger.  Dancing.  You know.  I just plain old miss having you around.  I’m…

Sorry, got stuck in a coffee house business talk with the manager here.  Good talk.  But a distraction.  And only about half an hour until home for dinner, a movie maybe before bed.  The stomach is in an uproar over the coffee cigarette thing.  Yeah, I was quitting.  But last night was angry smoking.  Pissed for no real reason.  So I smoked in an attempt to keep killing myself.  Still some smokes left, so they have to be smoked.  Waste not.  Want not.  Tomorrow night should be interesting.  Should it go as planned with the reading.  How many cigarettes will I go through?  Looking forward to the night.  And scared.  Should be tons of fun.  And possibly a very very important night in my life.  So much could change.  Fuck it.  Tomorrow is a chance to fix everything.  And a very beautiful woman gave me her number.  WHY DON’T I GIVE YOU MY NUMBER.  Made me feel good.  Same as it ever was.  Same play.  Same act.  Different scene.  Hoping to get it right sometime.  Soon would be good.  And so would dinner.  I’m off.  Again.  Still.  What’s the difference?

I’ve decided

not to mail the last letter.  The info is just too old.  And you’ve heard it all by now anyways.  How’s WAAF going?  This place.  The coffee house in particular.  Southern California in general.  Is disturbing because so few really mean it.  As the trend turns.  There’s so many things I wanted to put in these pages before I sat down before them.  Now the empty lines are fear.  Not that it’s fear of you laughing at me.  You’d only laugh at my jokes.  Even when they aren’t funny.  That’s very nice of you.  But if I leave the ideas inside here they are decidedly less real.  They are merely fantasies that can be shrugged off if they are never realized.  But if I name them they attain tangibility.  They enter into the world.  And if they fail then they have the power to hurt me.  That would put you in a position to hurt me.  Something you’ve never done.  Still I’m sure I’ll work myself into telling it all anyways.  I just need to propagandize myself into courage.  Which means I’ve just spent this space building up something that needs no building up.  Like forecasting sunrise and sunset.  Giving way to widespread darkness.  Stop the presses.  When I told Robin where Blacktstone is, she could place it.  It was one of those BOY I’M STUPID moments.  More tea time.  So many desperate people here.  Castrating themselves for the attention and sympathy.  It’s 9 o’clock.  Do you know where your children are?  Still in my pants, thank god.  I’m blocked right now.  So much confusion backing me up.  Running me in circles.  Away.  Think it would be better to start again, with less distraction.  More quiet.  Inside and out.  Upside and down.  There’s too much real to say to waste the energy on being and nothingness.

Well, it’s now now, and I’m back.  Spoke to you earlier today on your way to John and Ponch.  Thank god Ken Sullivan is only part time, huh.  Only bought one of the books I wanted.  Ordered another.  Then off to the coffee house, early enough to get my favorite seat.  The Moose memorial table.  If I happen to get here and the table is taken already, people will come to tell me when the person leaves, so I can take my rightful place.  Or at least my habitual seat.  It’s the best seat.  I am in position to see and hear all but one other table here.  An observation post of some sort.  Gathering stories.  Watching humanity.  And it’s artificial ingredients.  It may not make you fat, but it’ll give you cancer.  And I don’t mean the birth sign.  Or crabs.  Fade in.  Fade out.  Or not.  This is once in a century.  Maybe once in a millennium now that the brain chemistry has been stabilized.  You better get while the getting is good.  I don’t have too many good years left before you’ll have to put me out to pasture.  But I’ll let you keep the boots.  Now for a bit of levity, and proof of my powers.  You know that girl that wants me.  Well, I think she’s gone from my case.  But that’s besides the point.  She has this friend Darren.  I’ve never liked him.  That’s besides the point too.  Ever since I’ve met him I’ve been uncomfortable around him.  That eighth sense feeling that he was hiding something.  Trying desperately to keep us from finding something about him.  After a couple of meetings I announced to the girls that Darren was gay.  That was his desperate secret.  The announcement was greeted with disbelief and ridicule.  All great ideas.  Until this past Friday.  The girls came into see me at work.  When are you going to come in to see me at work?  Anyways.  Just before they left, Christy, that’s the girl who has sticky thighs for me, told me that Darren had admitted the other day that he has homosexual desires.  That he might be gay.  Vindication.  Then he also said that all men who masturbate are gay.  Absurdity.  That would make every man I know gay.  And I’ll be damned honest. I’m real hungry.  Maybe time to go home and make dinner soon.  Christy has enormous breasts.  But that’s about it as far as anything that I find appealing about her.  So, what’s all this serious pseudo-important muck I have to tell you?  Let’s consider the current usage of the term alternative.  God I love boobs.  Sorry distracted.  Everything I have to tell you is based on the assumption that you are serious in your desire for me to come back east.  That it’s not just a pleasant complimentary line you like to throw out at me.   If I’m wrong, oh well.  What would be the loss?  And you are 3000 or more miles away.  Our relationship has lasted, and maybe flourished, after so long and so much that this mistake and following confessions could hardly sink us.  I hope.  Then again it could be a correct assumption.  Fate smiles sometimes too.  First, after years, I may have figured it out.  The fade in fade out.  When I was in North Adams I was too young.  Lame excuse, I’m sure.  But, that’s not it.  What it comes down to , was that when I knew you, I’d never had a relationship that had both physical and emotional intimacy.  On or the other.  Never both together.  And it scared the shit out of me.  Fade out.  I should have stuck with it.  Should have worked on the more difficult relationship, rather than float through the easy ones.  Now I’ve lived through, and destroyed, my first relationship with both.  Though it took months to establish both.  So I’m more prepared for a relationship with you.  Fade in.  Those things that kept bringing me back are pulling at me again.  Swimming upstream is a bad analogy.  I guess you could say that you scared me.  And you did.  In a most constructive way.  Though it took me years to figure that out.  Still hungry after all these years.  And I don’t look like Tom Petty.  Minor miracles.  So.  What now?  What do I want?  What do you want?  Are they compatible? Even in theory?  Never mind practice.  Here’s my end.  And I do have one hell of a cute ass.  I want you.  I want to try us again.  To see if it’ll really work.  Being in the same time zone and everything.  While the line may be considerably premature, it is not without base that I tell you that I would marry you.  Hell, I’m willing to move back across the country to be with you.  To uproot my first taste of stability.  Maybe ever.  I can’t believe I just told you that.  Not only have I gone way out on a limb.  I’m jumping up and down on it.  Without a net.  Someone has made me suddenly brave.  Though it has gotten much closer to dinner time.  Marvin Hamlisch.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, wasting time.  Spilling filler to distract you.  But that’s why I’d move back east.  To be with you.  To try what I ran out on, so long ago.  The major problem.  Excepting the concern about whether you’re really interested.  Is financial.  That is overcome in time, though.  Temporary hurdle.  Money comes in faster than it goes out when I’m working.  And the money here is good.  Then it becomes an issue of logistics.  Where and how.  To be honest.  It’s not a joke about not wanting to go back to New England.  It’s barely shy of a phobia.  That’s why I offered up Richmond as an option.  While I’m not anxious to for some of the baggage that would come with moving back there, it fits well in many ways.  There is one desire I’d like to fill before moving across the country again.  I’d like you to come out here for a visit, to see how it is being in the same room again after so long.  Is it still there?  To move now would be to be with you, so I’d like to know before packing, that it won’t be an absolute disaster from the word go.  To know that we can be alone in the same room.  Now I’m not going to vouch for our behavior when we do get alone.  Some laws of both Nature and legislation may be in danger.  But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  Maybe if you don’t want to come here, we could meet in Richmond.  If that’s where you want to go, then you should probably see the place before moving in.  I think that’s enough exposure for one sitting.  Besides the noise is rising and the hunger is expanding.  But before this hits the mailbox, I want to tell you why I want this.  Want you.  I will try my damnedest not to have it sound like an absurd accounting.  Purely pro vs con listing.  It’s not, it’s desire.  I have spent many hours and weeks analyzing lately so I have a fleeting grasp of my motives, which may make my desire sound like a calculation.  Then again, it could all be a backwards rationalization.  Starting with the conclusion, and trying to find the reasons that fit.  More of that later.  After dinner.  Before bed.

Back.  Not last night, though.  This afternoon.  Passed out after dinner.  I can hear the guy downstairs from me snoring.  Not now, but when he’s sleeping.  And the woman next to me yelling at, and beating, her baby, for crying.  Seen, but not heard, I guess.  Life in the modern world.  Or post-modern.  Now, someone please explain that term to me.  It defies logic.  Anyways.  Computer geek at the counter now.  I waited on him at work the other night.  he left a 95 cent tip on a credit card.  More silliness from the messy masses.  Word games.  Fun fun fun.  Until daddy took the thesaurus away.  Maybe I should invest in one sometime.  Ken Sullivan.  Just can’t get over it.  And luckily, I don’t have to.  Do me a favor, and tell him that we’re moving to Virginia and getting married.  Tell him anything to shock him.  Make him the scarred little momma’s boy that he is.  Radio geek.  Little Napoleon.  Self importance through standing at the elbow of people of importance.  Oh, piss boy.  Not many kissed ass as well as he did.  And I can only imagine that practice has made him better.  A pro.  Hungry all the time.  War all the time.  Time all the time.  Even when it’s at a stand still.  What are you trying to say?  I’m addicted to computer games.  Is it me, or are the kids we beat up in school are now running the country?  Teh computer seems to have created more people that need to get out of the house more often.  A worse abomination than TV.  Cybersex.  Virtual reality.  There’s no need for other people any more.  The most dangerous prison is the one where you can’t see the walls.  In the name of god and country.  Sometimes I wonder.  Sometimes I wander.  Sometimes I take a shit.  Doesn’t make much difference since you never know what comes next.  You just pray that it comes soon and that you don’t get it in your eye.  Just imagine.  It’s the best tool you’ve got.  But I didn’t come here to run on at the pen.  Though it may be what I do best.  I Love this game.  So, why do I want to be back with you again, after not having been in the same room with you in so long?  There’s no question about my being attracted to you.  Though, I’d like you to send me a picture, or two dozen, of you.  Preferably naked.  Thinking of me.  Then again, aren’t you always thinking of me when you’re naked?  Anyways.  Back to reality.  But attraction alone wouldn’t be enough to get me to move back across the country.  What I’d move back for is the thing that happened because of our separation.  The intimacy we gained through being limited to phone conversations.  There isn’t a level of emotion that I haven’t touched with you.  That I don’t feel comfortable with you.  Laugh.  Cry.  Play.  Work.  Write.  Think.  Talk.  I don’t have to hide anything from you.  I feel at home with you.  More than that.  You push me.  Push me to push myself.  To right.  Even to not have to write.  To be comfortable enough with myself that I don’t need to create this second world to reconcile myself with my failures.  Because there are no failures with you.  Only adventures.  If we lived close, we’d be seeing each other.  So, why not make that possible?  Who in the world would be better than us?  And remember, I’m nothing if not stupid.  And I love stories.  If I can’t write them, I want to at least live them.  So, tell me what I have to do.

Now, that’s a loaded request, if I ever heard one.  Speaking of loaded.  Was that a guy or a girl?  And does it matter?

It’s the next day again.  Friday.  Distractions abound.  Have to go to work in a couple of hours.  It feels strange to have not worked in two days.  Hopefully tonight will be better that the last night I worked.  The rain ruined everyone’s mood.  Amazing what rain will do to easy going Southern Califorinans.  Boy they get crabby.  Like dogs left in the rain and kicked.  Spoiled children.  The sun doesn’t like me.  And neither do I.  But that’s a thought for another moment.  Speaking of other moments.  Oh, nothing.  Just filler.  Don’t step on my blue suede shoes.  Stay off them, you hear.  Specially while I do the twist.  In the jailhouse on lonely street.  Mixed metaphors.  Mixed musicians.  Mixed drinks.  Praying to the porcelain god.  Doodoo.  Kuka. Poopoo.  Peepee.  Weewee.  Woowoo.  Moomoo.  Choochoo.  I think I can.  I think I can.  Neurotransmitter surfing.  Aqua en fuego.  Have I mentioned that the only game I have here is Scrabble?  Need Monopoly.  A deck of cards.  Show and tell tonight at work.  Saturday is truth or dare.  Oh well.  The other night, two of the women I worked with threatened to hold me down and take my clothes off so they could see my tattoos.  All they’d have to do is ask.  I must be a Kennedy.  I like taking my pants off in public.  Kick out the jam.  Why not?  The trouble with tribbles.  Mission control.  The troll.  I think I dated her in high school.  10th reunion coming soon.  Sooner than expected.  Conjugated.  Constipated.  More roughage.  Cabbage.  My father is a strange man.  I wonder where he gets it.  Not to say that I’m distracted and scattered all over the place.  Who stepped on that duck?  Is that an elephant in your back yard, or is David Copperfield visiting again?  So, what’s it like?  Oh, I don’t know.  Anything.  Brain freeze.  Antifreeze.  Mr. Freeze.  Mr. Clean.  Pregnant on stick legs.  Got to be uncomfortable.  But it makes her boobs bigger.  So, it can’t be all bad.  Nibble my nipples.  Please.  And don’t stop there.  Tutti fruitti of the loom.  At least you know pregnant women put out.  Lactating again.  San Diegans to the right talking about Richmond.  Like they know.  In theory.  The same way they know real life.  Theory.  This is not real life.  Virtual existence.  Slurping tea.  Because it’s my right, as a Bostonian.  That and throwing it into the sea.  Dressing like Indians.  Cleveland Indians.  Who gets to be Jack McDowell?  The mashed potato.  Skin on, or skin off?  Wax on.  Wax off.  Someone slipped me the dribble lip again.  Great balls of fire.  Maybe that’s why one marries a 12 year old cousin.  Show me some skin.  What do you think?  Leave the 70s where they are.  Buried.  Hopefully in an unmarked pauper’s grave.  That may be it for now.  I’ve run out of steam, and it’s about time to get ready to get ready for work.  Until tonight.  In my dreams, or on paper.  Same deal.

Back where I started.  Wondering why apathy spends so much time in front of the mirror.  Check the hair.  The outfit.  Product presentation.  That’s what sells.  Maybe I’m just getting old.  Seems like a sleepwalking oxymoron to me.  But I’ve been wrong before.  Maybe.  The book’s not closed yet.  Thank god.  I’m so tired.  Days off are the worst for tired.  Nothing to get the juices up about.  Thin punk suspenders and studded leather rock belt.  Pick one genre, please.  Stick with it.  Mean it.  Leave me alone.  Woman in front of me buying a house.  Better than insurance, I suppose.  She’s ugly, alone, and insecure.  Sign me up.  Life isn’t like Star Trek.  Ken Sullivan.  Just can’t get over it.  At least I don’t have to deal with it.  Maybe he’ll be best man at our wedding.  Or piss boy.  Or the invitation might get lost in the mail.  Boobs.  god bless them.  Already did.  People without lives latching on.  People without purpose trying not to drown.  I want to go into some diatribe about unwanted kittys.  But the people I’d like to lead to the backyard bucket aren’t worth the energy.  Full of shit.  Me or them.  Don’t know.  Don’t matter.  Saw both shrinks Monday.  Clean bill of health.  So to speak.  Don’t see one anymore, unless depression recurs.  The other see in two months to make sure the medication is still effective.  Man to my right just had a chill.  Or a spasm.  Spasm is more interesting.  He had a spasm.  Hear the whip cream?  Whip cream is a good thing.  Smile somebody loves you.  And I’m going to kill him for it.  What’s the frequency Kenneth?  Sullivan.  The fun never ends.  Reregister the car next week.  Fun at the DMV.  Rather the RMV.  Stop talking about yourself.  You’re not that interesting.  Guy behind me wondering aloud why the section of the paper he wants, is gone.  Go get the paper.  Spend the 50 cents to make yourself happy.  This pen is pissing me off.  Not enough ink out the end.  Not flowing the way it should.  Time to buy some blue suede shoes.  Spent $90 on the car today.  At Jiffy Lube.  Oil change.  Fuel injector cleaning.  New gasket.  Runs much better now.  Better than new.  Or when I got it as new.  Robin Hood boots and vinyl pants.  Maybe he should see a doctor about that.  Trivial pursuit games this afternoon.  Lost both, but I was seriously outgunned.  And opposed by people who cared about winning.  I’m just curious.  Alice Cooper was goth way before Robert Smith and the trends.  How can someone let themselves get so fat?  Unless it’s a biological necessity.  Like diabetes.  I like my penis.  But I wish someone else would.  I think my relationship with myself is at a crossroads.  It’s getting stagnant.  I may have to break up with myself.  Try to let myself down easy.  Chilly out tonight.  Back to jacket time.  Time to pee.  I’ll think of you while I shake.  Encountered big fat smelly guy while waiting for the bathroom  Just wondering what is the proper toilet seat etiquette in a unisex public bathroom.  Write Miss Manners.  This place is so incestuous.  And parasitic at the same time.  Inbreeding while trying to kill itself off.  Sometimes you have to wonder.  Sometimes you don’t.  Because you’re better off not knowing.  And sometimes, knowing makes me remember why I did drugs.  Or why I should again.  Or why I envy Boo Radley.  I may not like cops personally a lot.  Or even professionally, most of the time.  But I have to respect them.  Their willingness to die for my safety.  Even if they are often merely officially sanctioned nazi stormtroopers.  Much like marines.  Little Napoleons.  Little Napoleon now that would be something to see.  If you could actually see him.  Too much time and energy spent on role playing games.  Creating characters.  Scott just stopped by and we spent time trying to offend everyone around us.  It worked.  Big fat smelly guy in line for coffee refill.  Hunger.  Felix Unger.  Katie has told me that I have to be the guinea pig for this Mexican restaurant we were told about.  Thanks.  My gas will be on her conscience.  Brooding guy is back.  He should give me his motorcycle.  Even though it is just a Honda.  He surely doesn’t need it.  Except to get laid.  And it’s not even working.  Boobs everywhere.  Life is good.  And you can have my Bud Light.  Do you see older people and try to see them in high school and college?  Who were they like that you went to school with?  Tall guy alert.  Image goatee alert.  At least I don’t look like Tom Petty.  Those are the breaks.  He’s putting sugar in a berry tea.

Back again.  One last short installment.  Have to move on, and write some other people.  Why not.  Crazy cousin Jen wanted to know what I was doing tonight.  Busy.  Sorry.  Busy by myself.  Better than the option she offered.  Busy with her.  Big fat smelly guy is back tonight.  Had Chinese for meal at 4 today.  Starving now at 7.  Laszlo is here now.  Marine who wishes he wasn’t.  Geek who wishes he wasn’t.  Plain old wishes he wasn’t.  Whatever he is.  Down a whole bottle of Pepto.  Needed it.  I have heartburn.  From what?  Too much sperm?  I don’t know, but it was funny.  There’s a ferris wheel at Walmart.  Katie’s here now to enjoy the love of work.  But, it’s my night off.  Then five nights running.  And I do mean running.  I’m afraid to drink my tea.  Chai tea, without the milk and honey.  Could be scary.  Laszlo is lost.  Doesn’t know what to do with himself when there’s no one to pay attention to him.  To pet the 3 year old in him.  The tea smells good at least.  Everyone is gay.  Everyone except me.  Or is it that they’re all afraid of their penises?  Tea’s not so bad.  Still too hot to be positive.  What nerve connects the penis to the ego?  Learning to fly.  I think I like this tea.  I may not sleep for a week though.  Yeah, right.  It was not sleeping that brought me to seeing a shrink.  60 ways to leave your lover.  I’ve added a top 10.  I’m sexy in overalls.  Well if I ever wore them, I would be.  Overalls and nothing else.  Coffee house down the road called Jitters.  Ain’t that the truth.  Guy eating KFC in the corner.  Hasn’t bought anything from here.  Sex drugs and cinnamon toast.  Cinnamon roll.  I do like this tea.  Though I’ll probably be wired like New York city.  But I’m more authentic, and taste better than salsa made in New York City.  Image guy smoking a pipe.  Good thing murder isn’t legal.  And I don’t like being ass raped.  Not anymore, at least.  Hopefully it won’t come to blows.  What, I don’t know.  Well, this seems like as good a place as any.  Neil Young.  A man needs a maid.  To be going.  Assuming I ever had something constructive to say, it’s run out now.  So until.  Until something.  Don’t hate me because I’m stupid.  Write me soon.  Send me nude pictures.  Love me forever.  Move to Richmond with me.

Something happened the other day

An accident.  I wrote the first chapter to any book I may be writing.  I was writing a letter.  Then there it was.  No genesis.  Or forethought.  Just existence.  Four pages of writing.  Sure they need rewrite.  Expansion on a few ideas.  Clearing up of some images.  Tinkering.  An accident.  Thought I’d farted.  Turns out I shit my pants.  What a beautiful sensation.  Both in act and reflection.  Though to be honest I did not know what had happened until a day later.  Then the words escaped.  Before the thought even fully solidifies.  JACOB, I WROTE THE FIRST CHAPTER TO MY BOOK.  And I felt like tears.  High five.  All right.  YOU’RE GOING TO BE FAMOUS ONE DAY GUY.  I KNOW IT.  As much as I want to prove I can do it.  To myself.  To my father.  To anyone who ever told me NO.  But when I had the look at it.  When Jacob held it there for me to look in the face.  My own face.  I got scared.  Just wanted to be left alone.  How to prove myself, without anyone finding out.  Nirvana.  Since I’ve spoken to you last many things have happened.  Most notably a prolonged absence from writing.  Just couldn’t.  In any form.  Not even postcard.  Same with reading.  All the outward signs pointed to depression.  Though the inside didn’t recognize the signs.  Periodic anger.  But not depression.  Now the book and writing are back.  The problem is time.  The reading cuts into the writing.  Writing into reading.  Can’t do both at once.  Maybe it’s just the summer.  I’m alive again.  Less sleep.  More eats.  Rage is back.  Rage without anger.  My whole body crawls with excitement.  Every moment possible.  Anything.  Then again it could just be that I think I’ve finally gotten rid of the girl I was seeing.  What a pain in the ass.  Wouldn’t leave me alone.  Then she goes so far as to stop seeing her girlfriend, to be with me.  She’s just too boring.  Nothing for mind or body.  Every moment wishing someone else was with me.  Or no one.  Any but who was there.  Not the way it’s supposed to be.  But she wouldn’t go away.  Now I can play again.  Everything.  Don’t worry about her calling.  Showing up unannounced.  Nice legs.  Nice chest.  Leave those.  The rest can go away. Sorry.  You were interesting for a month or so.  Then I realized.  Possession is such and evil thing.  I want to play.  Not with her.  So I called Eileen.  Asked her to move here so we could not grow old together.  Wayland.  3000 light years away.  How ashamed would Dr. Hennesey be that I came from her school?  Recipient of the prestigious. Coveted.  Presidential Academic Fitness Award.  After refusing National Honor Society.  Because the induction.  Or was it initiation?  Ceremony was at an inconvenient time.  Saturday morning probably.  Apathy and inertia have brought me here.  I’m the happiest man alive.  I can’t help the smile when I think of my classmates.  And in my mind I see them.  Monuments to their own demise.  Lobotomized automatons.  Conducting somnambulistic rituals of Sysiphian labor.  Drooling rabidly to accept Pavlovian gifts to ulcers and failed marriages.  To Buffy.  Or Hunter.  Dreaming slave dreams.  Of matching outfits.  Place settings.  And children.  In whose play you can hear the Death roar of the violence of the separation from Love.  The BMW to drive to the office.  Because the boss will never give them that promotion if he saw them driving a Caravan that they use in real life.  Subjugating their lives in the pursuit of an ideal which they had no active role in formulating.  Or even in accepting.  The material world defining worth.  Instead.  Last time I checked.  The material world is inanimate.  As such incapable of any action.  Especially assigning value.  Slave mentality.  Sacrificing your life so that your children can have it better.  How christian an attitude.  Give up anything that feels good for something better that you will never know you attained.  I don’t know.  I just don’t understand.  I’m under the impression, this is my life.  You don’t understand because you don’t have children.  Aha.  There’s a reason for that.  No extra baggage.  Change the way inertia acts on me.  Active inertia.  Can’t stop on my own.  Have to keep moving.  To stop would be to violate a law of Nature.  Don’t ever fuck with Nature.  How can anyone not do what I have done.  Present is too short to skip to the future.  Even the shitty parts are awesome.  It’s Life.  Better than any drug I ever tried.  Or maybe it’s the freedom.  Realization of all the promises I made myself as an adolescent.  An animal alertness.

After many aborted attempts

Due to utter chaos in life and mind.  I’ve headed back to writing you a letter.  Specially since it has occurred to me that time is running out before you move.  As I write you now, I’m waiting for two girls.  Ex-roommates of an ex-girlfriend.  To move into my place.  Morgan.  And Amanda.  Probably pregnant.  Not mine.  Daughter of a homeless tweeker.  Or as we say back on the right coast, a Speed Freak.  Thank god for my anti-depression medication.  Or else I’d be writing form the nuthouse.  Jail.  Or overdose.  Shit, it’s been crazy here.  Just the way I like it.  Of course I got involved with the wrong girl.  Alex.  I think I spoke to you about her.  She of the two year old son who calls me Daddy.  Beautiful.  Intelligent.  Caring.  Supremely motivating.  Spiritually gifted beyond her knowing.  Completely shielded by lies.  Deceit.  Neuroses.  June Miller.  She has lied to me form about day five.  Stolen money from me.  Taken the rope that I handed her to haul away her chaos and used it to hang me.  We had a fight.  She said she never wanted to speak to me again.  That lasted a week and a half.  Closer to two.  Now the same games have begun anew.  The lies.  The other guys.  While loving me more than she can handle.  So she runs away.  Attempt to prove to herself that she is the shit her parents abused her into believing, as a child.  She is an internal contradiction.  Two feuding personalities.  The one of hope.  The one of self-destruction.  And I can’t help loving her for it.  Like no one I’ve ever met before.  Such unbelievable Possibility.  Unchained untamed beauty.  Today two of her girlfriends are moving into my place.  To stay only a little while, theoretically.  While they get their feet on the ground with new jobs.  Zeno would be so proud.  Life so original.  Let the games begin.  What the hell am I doing here?  Creation or Destruction?  Where is the difference?  Perhaps all those half cents of interest and pay lost in the computers.  Needless to say.  But I will anyways.  All the silliness has given space to much writing.  Too much perhaps.  I’m about 50 pages behind in getting handwritten drafts into the computer.  I have the first 20 pages of the book in.  And it keeps transforming as I go.  I’ve decided that the separation of everyday writing and book writing is stupid.  So now they have been combined.  Created an imperfect circle.  Random.  Stupid stories.  The leapfrogging timeline tracing time in my life up to now.  And what happens every day.  All side by side.  Layered.  meaning the book will end where it begins.  It will end with the fight with Alex.  Where it begins.  After the story about the six foot talking purple ostrich from outer space who informs me that I don’t exist.  Shit.  Hell if I know if I can pull all this off.  Sounds beyond me.  But who can tell.  The perfection of Dostoyevsky, and the chaos of real life.  Life is beautiful.  Virtual reality.  Fun and games for everyone.  Undiscovered dimensions.  Christopher Columbus.  Maro Polo.  Neil Armstrong.  You ain’t got nothing on me.  Before I’m done I’ll have escaped Time and Space.  The triviality of physicality.  Don’t believe the lies your biology teacher spoke.  Merely a costume ball for the spiritually retarded.  Deconstructionism.  Too negative.  I’m rambling again.  Nothing new under the sun.  So the saying goes.  So it is.  I wish I could have a glass of wine.  But it’s off to work.  Me, not the glass of wine.  The drone of bread in the belly.  Surrender to Biology.  Concession.