Writing Update of Sorts. (Not forming. Just thoughts as the occur)
A real person who is also part writer is like a professional sports athlete, and not even taking the time to cook my soup I really don’t have time to do what I’m doing right now. This book is consuming me and nobody really knows that. As I become a better writer I become weirder by the day. There are some pretty strange characters in my book. I’m holding it together the best I can but man… it’s really good. Sometimes it takes me a minute a word, that’s along time. At three I’m done for the week. My body hurts. My eyes are becoming a problem. They say go do nothing please. This is a documentation of life. My body could just about collapse right now. Somehow the book got really strange and bizarre. Nicely looking paragraphs are nice and calm as you iron them out during editing. I really think the end product will make people think if nothing else. If when I’m done I don’t like it, the process still will be worth it. I need to sell it and I’ll try to make sure people know they should read it. I need to stop giving sections out for free until it’s just dead weight. knowing that I have to keep at this pace and not work faster or slower nothing can change, and I’m a good writer now, anything less than I know I’m capable of isn’t good enough. I wont even worry about anything else until I know it’s done. I really need to get on with other things. My days are getting more tense and I have some travel dates lined up but I haven’t even emailed anyone back in about a month. I can’t do anything until it’s done. Time is running out. It will come down to some kind of last second shot, and I’ll know when it’s done. I wont miss anything. The whole story connects but it’s 250+ pages now. People wonder what the heck I’m doing all the time. I’m on page 81. The fifth re-write is going to take longer than the 4th. It will need 6th re write when this is done. I wont even think about looking at it until Sunday afternoon. For eight to nine hours a day I really got stuck this week. Still something interesting is happening. I’m starting to like the keyboard. the springs are in line with my fingers, the letters are wearing off. One in the same. The brain the keys and the mind and the thoughts often they flow as one. This editing has made me a better writer and it will show in this work but more so in my future work. Who cares. I do. I’ve made myself make a deal with myself that no more information or developments can be made. This is not the book I will write, it is a book I will write. The next one will be great-er. It’s all coming together and then falling apart in real-time. Ten more pages and then my day is done. Ten more pages and then I’m going to quit writing forever. No I’m not. I don’t know what any of this is truly for, but You have to believe that you’re working on one of the most important works to be attempted if you want to fail. You have to just tell yourself that it matters, because maybe, it will. Anyway, when you can’t create, you can work. Here is a documentary for those who believe in one of the last good fights in this damn noisy world. Peace.
Visions of Florida, 2011 Manuscript.
Up on the old campus a cop drives by. I’m sitting on the steps looking at the neighborhood below. That’s where I used to live. He puts the car in reverse and rolls down his window. I walk up to him.
“It’s alright to be up here, right?” I ask
“Yeah. If you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re not doing anything wrong are you?”
“No. I’m leaving anyway.”
Kicking rocks as I walk back down the hill. I’m sitting outside of a bar drinking and thinking things over. There’s a kid sitting next to me. He seems to be just thinking things over as well. I start talking to him.
He’s a traveler kid from Pikney, a musician with a straw hat and a worn pack. He’s much younger than me, although he doesn’t know that he is. Everybody thinks I’m a teenager or something. He gives me the same kind of look as the police officer did. I don’t know what that means.
“So you live here?” I said
“Go to school?”
“Nope. I move.”
“Yeah, I just move around… around… around.”
“Cool. Here too?”
“Yeah, I just moved here.”
“In the woods by Ann Arbor.”
“Cool. You like it here?”
“Seems alright. Just another city. I travel around all the time” he says.
“Cool. Me too. Where you been, well before Pikney?”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Boston” I said. “You like it there?”
“Naw, I don’t really like the city life” The kid from Pikney says
“Yeah, they kinda terrify me too.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Oh…” I said
The kid from Pikney doesn’t say anything more. He nods his head, finishes his drink and smokes and walks away back into the building. After my drink is gone I don’t have anywhere to go so I walk back up the hill. I come across two couples.
“You came out of nowhere” a guy said.
“No I didn’t. I came from somewhere” I said. “Sure is a nice night.”
It is a nice night. The man doesn’t say this. She doesn’t say this. I say this. It is a nice night. Clear sky and stars; the night sky is blue with the dance of electricity.
“Be cool” I said to the couple. Both of them laugh. I put on my headphones and get to the front of the building that overlooks the city, the same place where I met the police officer. I wasn’t doing anything wrong then and I’m not doing anything wrong now. I don’t ever do anything wrong.
Places like this never get old. They always cause me to remember the good and bad times. Today is the ten year anniversary of nine eleven. Life is strange.
Sitting against the wall by the front door there’s a girl writing on her arm and a guy leaning up against a pillar playing a guitar. He only has four strings. It still sounds good.
“Sounds great. Nice night” I said.
“Sure is” He said. Right then another string breaks.
“Down to three” I said.
He doesn’t say anything. He looks mad. She looks mad.
Down the road another cop car slowly creeps down the path turning rocks like harmless snapping turtles. The guy with three strings tells his girlfriend that “it’s time to go”. They leave. It’s the same cop.
“Still not doing anything wrong” I said.
“Nice night” the police officer said.
I Don’t Know…
Tap…and I suppose. I’m just typing. My book (day 126 or something of the editing process) is at a rather low point once again. Inspired but tired. Bored but who knows what else. Getting better than not. The same but more words grow like a plant. Days go by and the spring, I guess it’s here. Went to bed got yelled at by pal to go to the bar. Went to the bar came home and slept for three hours. Woke up because I should be working. Standing up because back hurts. Lazy because the long hours are catching up to me. Perseverance is what it’s all about. Digging to find what’s already there. Days and who knows when I’ll be done. Almost may. Almost 32. I have to be done before the 15th. I constantly say that this will be the day that I get in some kind of roll. You can’t really get into a roll when you’re editing. He said he couldn’t breathe when he was editing. I feel the same. Makes me feel like my chest might collapse. Every day I say that this is the day but then I only get 1500 words done and cut 500 words out, time spent, five hours on four pages, and then the sounds are back and then I just have to go for a walk. I’m learning again and it’s strange as you get older. Strange feeling yourself get smarter and being able to sense this conscious life in ways that people much older than me never will. I said this before but writing can change you. I listened to a radio show about an old guy telling the damn kids what books not to read. I listened to Foster Wallace’s long gone voice and he sounded so passive, and he was so good, so down, and then he killed himself. He left his last book out on his desk for people to find. He was a postmodern writer and he knew it. He knew how the media drove his point home. He needed the media even though he hated it. I don’t need the media. I use it because it’s there and it allows a poor man to connect. But David was really sick and I know what it’s like to find strength in your depressions. It’s a circle for the artist who is nothing more than a human.
I don’t know. Tap. Everything influences me. I haven’t watched television since I broke up with my girlfriend. It’s strange. David was something else but he knew what he was doing and he was such a good writer and he was given as much time as he wanted. He would have helped writing and writers so much more if he was still alive, and really, he was a real sick fuck because he wanted people to talk about him even after he was dead. I don’t see the point of saying what should be done with all my notes and writing and manuscripts after I’m dead. I don’t care now if I lose most of it and I really won’t care then. You can shoot them to the moon if you want to or make something that floats out of all the paper I’ve made a mess of. Everybody talks about a point. Whats the point? Maybe the point is that there’s no point. That you have to make your own point based on what your evolution tells you, and humans don’t even want to be what they are. I’m sorry humans, you’re humans.I don’t know. Tap. Everybody wants goals but they don’t make the kind of goals that I’ve set for myself. The point? The point is not to seek death or the future but to live now as if you’re already dead. The point? I don’t know. Tap.People make life so hard on each other, and I do it too. My typing is second to none these days and I am afraid of writing. I’m afraid of who? Myself, that’s it. But it’s too late to be overly sensitive and aware of what I’ve already been invested in. You can’t quit now because you’re already underground. Not as crazy as I seem in my own head and not as smart as I think when I’m alone. There’s so much more that I need to see and read and keep getting wiser and tired, only tired but as I’m done with this typing warm up I think of the shadows of spring. The dirt and the yellow sun and the old crates down by the old wood boats now owned by nobody. I think about how looking at the lake makes me so happy and alive. I think about the daytime rabbits and the skipping stones and the feeling that the rocks weigh in my hands. I think about the ripples in the tides and the life under the water, and seriously, what were human’s ever thinking? Factories should never have been allowed to do what we have already done. I don’t know. Tap. I speak about my country. We always forget. We always think the old don’t know and the kids are punks. Who’s right? The adults. Who are the adults? I don’t get it. There is about a twenty to thirty year gap and maybe less when you are said to be able to control your own destiny, that you can take part in the world, but the rest of the time, the other sixty to seventy percent of your life you are said to be an incompetent fool. I think we need to let someone else run the world for a while, because really, the adults aren’t doing a very good job. Take even my town. Schools closed down. Lakes polluted. Spring cleaning means cutting down greens. People just yell random noises at all hours of the day. Almost fifty percent of the people can’t read or don’t care to read. That old man, that damn old man, and he said don’t read certain books, and he said don’t read Kerouac and Vonnegut and don’t read King and don’t read Hemingway and who knows who else you can’t read. I think that man must have had some kind of an agenda. He said don’t do what I did. I read those books and that’s why I never wrote the great novel, and that’s crazy. Just read. Read books. Read. Read. Turn off your televisions. Write and read everything, every book. Don’t listen to those who say don’t read because you will be influenced, and that if you are a writer you should just read…then…what? I don’t know. Tap. People need to think about the argument that their words form once in a while but not all the time. I don’t know. He said don’t read. Don’t read these books because you will try to steal their voice, and this is impossible. Nobody can steal anybody’s voice and really it doesn’t matter. Just do what you want but be nice and try to remain calm. I don’t. I’m learning. Trying. But the struggle is the point. Some people are losing and they don’t even know it, because they don’t care. Just another day. Another day of being an adult. I’m just typing. I don’t know. Tap…