File under: Notes to Future Old Man and Writing Wound Record.
First, before the broken bone, here’s some words that I was given when I was writing the book pictured to the right of us. I always laugh when I read them, and so during this holiday season, I pass on some inspiration to keep on reading and writing and fighting the good fight, whatever that is.
“I know you’re a writer, but in reality, the mission or the military seem like your only alternatives.”
About 45 minutes ago I wanted to leave a note: I just broke my middle finger backwards slipping on some damn ice. Mother f Bomb. I was on a smoke break going into my final hour of doing the tap-tap-tap, was singing some song being all happy and what not, and then, open door, step step slide step and feet oh no, feet in air, hands back, crack. Now, after many fuck words, tape tight on fingers and it’s bad, the pain kinda drunk dimmed down with watered down white wine. Going to have to pull over time tonight, to get done with the daily, tap-tap-tap. This shit is dangerous, even when I don’t leave the house something wants to kill me. That bate bite a couple weeks ago, now this. I’m reminded of a scene from this very premature book I still wish I would have waited to write. (taken from a Spontaneous Revolution, Printed 2009, first edition can be found to purchase at West Vine Press.)
“Today is Wednesday I think, I could be wrong. I woke up, ate some cereal, and currently I’m outside writing. Nobody else is around and the day is still young. I didn’t find a job, I’m not sure what day it is, and I keep staying up all night trying to finish this body of work that I desperately want to complete before I get back to Michigan. I burnt the shit out of my hand taking a coffee mug out of the Microwave. Why didn’t I think it would be that hot? I can hardly type, my hand is blistered, and with every key I press blood squirts out. Who said being a writer lacks any real danger? It’s a fucking war.”