( I have rescued the first two paragraphs of this from something I wrote last summer, something begun and never finished. The rest is likewise not a real narrative but rather a collection of stuff, much of which is from a notebook I’ve been writing tiny bits in since last century. It is leather-bound and has some sort of Celtic design on the cover. I have always liked the book but the punchline is that I am a terrible diarist.)
It is hot these days. It is the kind of heat that immediately stupefies you, that displaces you from your regularly ordered senses, that makes you wonder where the time went or what that buzzing sound is in your ears. If this heat were sweetness, it would be cloying. If it were fear, we would all be nightmare-paralyzed from the waist down. If it were love, it would be suffocating.
The other day I found myself wanting to write. It had been a few weeks since I had put together anything good, and since I long ago convinced myself that I’m full of stories that people need to hear, I get antsy if I haven’t told any in a while. I at one point started to think that telling stories is my favorite thing to do, but I don’t know if that can be true. I don’t know if I have any favorites.
***
I have never spent much time in libraries. It does not offend me that most of the books in libraries are 1) dull or 2) lies, because plenty of people like to read them. All I get at a library is bored.
***
Is life a collection of wine you don’t drink? Maybe all this time you have been drinking beer the wrong way.
***
When I worked at Starbucks many many years ago, I thought that people were paying for the service and philosophy of our shop along with the coffee, making it worth $4. Now I go to Starbucks and buy the coffee I used to make but I am not sure at all what I am paying for.
***
Adult Swim is no good anymore. I blame Eric Wareheim.
***
Today I read a rather lengthy post on a website about something or other by my good friend Samn. As a salutation at the end, where you might put
Yours truly,
Samn
or
Very sincerely,
Samn
he instead wrote
Thousands of Dildos,
Samn
and it made me laugh for a good three minutes or so.
***
I remember very explicitly holding the money in my hand after selling my drums in Boston. It was a cold night, and Massachusetts-early-winter-pitch-dark. The guy drove away from our place on Concord Street and I held the money in my hand, feeling the edge of the crisp new bills before I put them in my pocket. It did not seem like enough. I went inside to pack.
***
Travis, my new friend at the bar in Memphis, Tennessee, is hammered. He is also full of self-loathing. He is stealing my cigarettes and I am beginning to see his point.
Later this same night, I got in a car with a complete stranger at the bar who promised me a ride back to my hotel. It turned out okay but could have been a bad decision. Not sure I learned anything, other than my judgments of character based on bumper stickers is a perfect 1-1.
***
Partial, unsubmitted McSweeny’s list – Inarticulate Descriptions of Ethnic Foods That Would Also Make Good Band Names:
- Vietnam Sandwich
- Seasonal Jew Crackers
- Faloofa, Or Whatever The Hell It Is
- Greek Burrito
***
The more I write, the more I start to think about the act itself. For instance, I am usually driven to distraction if I don’t use a computer to write, but I will go through small patches where I feel more comfortable writing something out longhand. Normally it will be a whole piece that I write with a pen and paper and then once it is done (just one draft) I will type it up and then resume my normal word processing ways. All of the Vignettes were written this way.
In my younger years I would have said that maybe the story needed to be written by hand, which is some goofy bullshit. Now I am content to think there’s just something nice about occasionally writing by hand. It certainly worked for plenty of my betters for thousands of years. I like doing it that way every once in a while because it feels old, and because it feels like I’m saving something. These feelings, which are both true, are also probably bullshit.
***
All I’ve learned from working in politics is that I don’t understand people. I thought I did – I’ve always been a people person. I can get along with pretty much anyone if they give me a chance and I can tell a mean story or get inside someone’s head before they know it. I thought this meant that I had an understanding of how people work and think, but it seems like maybe I only understand how to interact with someone to achieve a short-term positive result. My fear isn’t the same as another person’s fear, and what I want couldn’t be more different from what you want.
I don’t regret learning this. Most of my decisions are made in a tersely logical way after a consideration of the costs and benefits. Even if the decision is bad, I have at least worked it out in a way that satisfies some kind of ordered thought process. This is a function of living my life and I in no way regret it, although I admit that I am prone to over-thinking things.
So I am always surprised when I ask someone about what led them to do a disastrous thing and they say “I don’t know.” That’s like missing the parent-teacher conference not because you are too busy or you forgot but because it does not occur to you that your child goes to school. Life doesn’t exist at arm’s length. It is in your face and either laughing or snarling and you either see it or you don’t, usually by design. No one is better at lying to you than you, because you are so ready to believe.
***
ATTENTION: You are not cut out for this.
***
How is it I only ever get in trouble when I think I know what’s going on? When I embrace being a dumb fuck about a thing I never break it.
***
Sharks are rad. If someone asked me whether I wanted to be a shark or a horse, the answer would always depend.