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.
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.