Showing posts from 2006
All that snow I almost had a heart-attack shoveling out of the way, it's all gone, melted away. And the backyard, it's a tiny islet of grass in a vast sea of mud.
Within the same week two different people at two different times have asked me the same exact question: "Has your iPod changed your life?"
Why did I open the refrigerator to look for a replacement light bulb?
It ain't M ea t L oa f at his tastiest, but it is M ea t L oa f .
The Accidental Atwood (Or Not) Once a year (sometimes twice a year) Pop is struck with the sudden urge to make the rounds of all his doctors. At least once a year this is a valid urge; within a two-month span he'll want to set appointments with his internist, his dentist, his dermatologist, his optometrist, his proctologist, his ears-nose-and-throat specialist, along with the others that don't readily come to mind. The thing is, were he to visit every single one on The List, he'd have enough appointments to fill up every single day of the work-weeks for an entire month—or so it seems. Here's the point: When this happens (our Tour De Medico), a LOT of time is spent in waiting rooms. And then more time is spent waiting in examination rooms. Indeed, two weeks ago, during an impromptu visit to the internist, the waiting lasted forty-five minutes in an examination room the size of two public toilet stalls. These examination rooms are strung together by a labyrinth of narrow
In particular, track 12: "Baby Hold On"

The FireVaney's First Letter to the Editor...

To Whom It May Concern: In the December 3, 2006 issue of the Chicago Tribune Magazine, on page 18, Erla Zwingle, instead of having quoted it, paraphrased a passage from Hemingway's A Farewell To Arms. As published in her article, the passage reads: "The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong in the broken places. It kills the very good and the very brave and the very gentle impartially. If you are none of those you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry." As published in the 1949 hardcover edition of A Farewell To Arms , the passage reads: "The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." (Chapter 34, pages 258-259.) My intention is not to come across as being overly punctiliou
The characters working at the nearest Cook County Jewel are more clearly defined to the eye — that is, when compared to the characters working at the nearest Lake County Jewel. There's something more cramped and haggard about that nearest Cook County Jewel, something less ordered and more spontaneous in the arrangement of things and people. In Lake County, while the selection is more diverse and abundant, the character is more homogenized and punctilious; and while the produce is fresher, the spirit is weaker. At the Cook County Jewel, I feel more at-home or more at-ease. In the parking lot, my car blends-in better. But somehow I find myself more frequently lodged between the Escalades and the Navigators parked before that Lake County Jewel; where I find myself wearing my heavy suede coat — the one you can't sneeze on without ruining its velvety nap. It keeps me warm, it doesn't weigh down my shoulders, it looks and feels expensive, it matches my hair and it matches my eye
Today, my eyes are cue-ball heavy. Normally, they're ping-pong light. My stomach is chewing me out for something I don't know what. My neck, rusted through, is bolted to my head. This is what happens the day after I don't sit straight.
You wanna know just how conservative this liberal's become? Last night he watched Top Gun — not because he hasn't seen it too many times already, but because (believe it or not) it's legitimate research. While he's watching, it hits him: Val Kilmer's character, "Iceman," he's not the asshole. It's Maverick who's the asshole. And, all these years before, this so-called "liberal," he was convinced that "Iceman" was the one. In fact, all these years before last night, he's held a grudge against Val Kilmer personally because of the outstanding job he did in that movie — the outstanding job, of being an apparent, but not a legitimate, asshole. Because, when you're a kid, you wanna be Maverick. You wanna be an asshole.
As it was with the daily brushing of his teeth and the weekly shaving of his face, jerking-off had become perfunctory; simply something to get out of the way.
Oh, how I hate , hate , HATE ! leaf-blowers! Have some Goddamned patience and let the wind take care of it!
My second novel, like the first, is an abomination of the English language—which explains why God created the Revision. Really, to call both of these lengthy slatherings of ink "novelistic" must be pushing the definition to its unnatural extreme. As with all of my drafts of anything, I can never settle upon a title. So, I always keep a running list. Below, then, is that list of working titles for my second effort at a novel... Clay Thumb on the World Unique Reek The Clatters The Sniggering Clatters Clay and the Sniggering Clatters: A Ridiculous Fable Pined For An Infectious Miasma of Lunacy The Broadloom The Humph Infernal Obliquity Tenacious Nougat Dangling from the Goop The Briefest of Gusts The Cusp of Fall Points of Tolerance Shag Bark Lane Mr. & Mrs. Clatter of 7 Shag Bark Lane Paint Yourself Ridiculous Crossing Thresholds Gravity's Tug A Pale Perplexion The Constant Swerve For the duration of my effort, I left the first line on the cover of the composition book
The one who writes pathetically, thinks pathetically, lives pathetically. * *Note Of Clarification: The above sentence originated as the first in today's off-line, pen-and-paper journal entry. It was an assessment of the last pen-and-paper journal entry, written a fortnight ago. The sentence above, I would hazard to guess, is certainly not applicable to you.
At some point—if not for pellucidity's sake then for productivity's sake—you must limit your Influences. While it provides the clay and shapes the molding of the clay, the Influence is, nevertheless, the Constant Invader. Thus: Command (and limit) the Influence, and there is nothing you cannot command (or limit). Hence: Oedipus Rex, Hamlet, Of Mice and Men, Casablanca, Waiting for Godot, Oleanna, Star Wars, Reservoir Dogs, Toy Story, etc... Without set boundaries and limitations—read, for example: gravity and atmosphere—there would be only infinite chaos, and thus, no discernable life. Or not. * * * Hm: "... shapes the molding..." A bit redundant, eh? Perhaps: ".... directs / governs / dragoons the molding..." would be more apt?
Fifteen pages more, and it'll be the absolute roughest of first drafts.
This is what Seger fans have waited fifteen years for.
Compared to some people—believe it or not—I'm downright sane .
Finally, one must find one's own way—if at all.
What if, The Wanting is all I want? The Wanting, after all, is Familiar. Indeed, The Wanting is (seemingly) all I ever get. (Which is not entirely true.) (Indeed, it would be a slight lie.) Indeed, I get plenty of what I do not Want. (But don't we all?) But, what if I really do Want exactly what I get— and yet, somehow, think , somehow, believe , that what I get is what I do not really Want?
"Desire not to command; desire not to create; desire not to destroy; desire not to explore, why, then, desire to survive?" ...inquired the Ensconced Suburban Ignoramus.
"To those in fear of losing it, reason stuck like a bur. And to those in hope...?" —Beckett, Murphy
Rest assured, when really bad things happen in my little world, I am utterly without words. Life, after all, is very, very snug here, in my suburban cocoon. For Christ's sake, to think I was loosing sleep over an undelivered city vehicle sticker! I fake intelligence—or, perhaps, that much is clear.
While I cannot draw a distinction between infatuation and obsession, I certainly do not know what it means to love. Okay, scratch that. Having looked up all three, I've a handle on what afflicts me.
There he is, the FireVaney—yet again replaying the unremitting stretch of silken, violinistic sawing nestled (roughly) 3 minutes into the fifth track of String Quartet No. 5 by Philip Glass, performed by the Kronos Quartet—flailing his arms as if some crazed orchestral conductor. Why does this mad "conducting" of the music better connect him to it? Is his pen recklessly inscribing nonsense into the air (when it should be draining itself upon the page below) not some upper-limbed manifestation of the Modern Dance mode—albeit seated?
With a bit of a smirk, Dad liked to say, "You need to suffer more." Well, it's a work in-progress, Dad. He also liked to say, and always with a twinkle in the eye, "You need more supervision." After thirty-four years, Dad, that one, I'll give you.
With a bit of a smirk, Dad liked to say, "You need to suffer more." Well, it's a work in-progress, Dad. He also liked to say, "You need more supervision." And always with a twinkle in the eye. After thirty-four years, Dad, that one, I'll give you.
The thinner he is the more neurotic he is but the thinner he is.
"When would he learn not to plunge into the labyrinths of an opinion when he had not the slightest idea of how he was to emerge? And before a hostile audience!" — Beckett, Murphy
First thing every morning after pissing: he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; then he gets on with the rest of his day, stuffing his face throughout most of it.
" ' it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired of places.' " —Beckett, Murphy
There is a God and He hates my guts. But this is not news. I'm just smiling at the reminder. Thanks, you Biggest of all Lugs. You offer nothing, and I shall, wholeheartedly , embrace it.
Gosh darn it! You people need to correct me when I clearly screw up spelling, syntax, grammar, word choice, etc. Don't just sit there and giggle at my every folly.
I was working the espresso machine on the corner of Broadway and Aldine in Chicago. Upon hearing the news my first question was: "Are they still standing?" That seemed, at that moment, most important. The customer, his face slack and pallid and haunted by the TV images, said yes, they were. "Good," I said, "so long as they're still standing."
You are only weakened by what can be taken away from you. Independent, that is, of what you would freely and/or gladly part with.

Death of a "Croc Hunter"

What is the difference between a daredevil and a fool? A fool, you'd agree, doesn't know what he's getting into. And, yes, most fools are men (after all, ladies and gents, it takes one to know one). A fool walks into a situation both blind and clueless. A daredevil, while still at least something of a fool, likely knows the danger of Heading In. Also, the daredevil has an aim—no matter how reckless; no matter how insane. As sniffling and mundane and specious as he may appear to you, the FireVaney secretly seeks to date a daredevil—so that he may proceed to write about her, of course; thus dispensing with the need to conjure such an intrepid vixen up out of thin air. (Although, in the end, he'll probably marry a librarian.) Which the "Croc Hunter" was, daredevil or fool, the FireVaney does not care enough to investigate and conclude. He scribbled down the factoid into his notepad upon hearing the news this morning. Three hours later, roughly, the urge to draw
As convoluted as it may strike you, from one perspective, there is strength in shutting everyone and everything you fear out of your life; but, admittedly, from another perspective, opening up to those same feared people and things, is, perhaps, the most empowering choice you could make. You see, if it / if she / if he has a debilitating effect, why bother any further? Then again, if you admit to your faults, and endeavor to move past them, well, then, how can you not find respect for yourself? Either way, it's risky. That is, depending upon the damage you've done. But when is it not risky to scrape all that caked-on shit free of the proverbially hit fan—and while its blades are still slicing the stifling air at full force? One can only try, although Master Yoda and (incidentally or perhaps not incidentally) Charles Bukowski both insisted that one can only "do." According to one source, "Don't try" is chiseled into Mr. Bukowski's tombstone. And, r
When Mom said, “I like your hair,” I was wearing a baseball cap.
When no one "gets" you — that's when you're alone.
He posed this question to the class: "Where do you go for peace and quiet?" When it came my turn, my reply was: "The beach." This was my answer not because it was true, but because it was, somehow, Poetic. He was impressed by my answer, and that was my point: To Impress — because, in that particular place, and at that particular time, he was in a position of power. And, in a way, he still is. This adolescent memory resurfaced yesterday, whilst traversing bare-footed upon a rocky beach — my eyes fixed more on the broken beer bottles and castoff condoms strewn across the shore than on the gently lapping blue expanse beyond.
A seemingly pertinent quote to a semi-recent series of incidents — all of which are now mourned and cherished... "The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its ultimate course — its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads; and chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the last featuring blow at events." —Melville, Moby Dick
So this chum of mine, for the first time in his life, is about to abandon glasses for contact lenses. During his last attempt to transition to contacts he'd view the world, with every blink, upside down — which, while kind of neat, was understandably disconcerting. Back then, apparently, contact lenses did not adjust to someone's particular astigmatism. But, as you know, technology marches on. Before now, this chum of mine only removed his glasses to sleep, to shower, and for sex. Clearly, before now, sex, for my chum, was inevitably something of a squirming pink blur; and, naturally, more a haptic experience than anything else. Then again, who knows, I may be in the minority when it comes to copulating (the precious few times that I have) in broad daylight or with the lights left on. This, mind you, is not necessarily a preference of mine; no, it is not as if I am afraid of the dark, and it is not as if I am concerned with misaiming at anything; it is simply how one thing has
...mind (and mine) observations descriptive of specific behavior, and, thus, representative of character...
"That's how complexes are created, out of structure." — Robert Downey Jr.
In particular, track 4: "Oh, Mary, Don't You Weep"
"...all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore..." —Melville, Moby Dick
Whenever I used the African Princess's bathroom, she would always insist on having the faucet running for the duration of my tinkle. She would do likewise, whenever the urge to free herself from my groping and sucking clutches struck.
Somebody buy me a summer home in Antarctica for my birthday. Pretty pleeeeeasssseeee?
Currently suffering through yet another spell of possession-shedding. Fortunately, my room feels so much lighter for it.
She was an error I couldn't resist making ( love to ) .
I'm half-way to half-way there. That is, regarding completion of the novella's first draft.
41. "Natalie...?" Milt's voice was a hoarse gasp.
42. Bart swung around fast—the rubber of his soles squeaking and losing a bit of grip against the wet street.
43. His shooting arm tightened.
44. Betraying her pasted-on apathy, Natalie watched herself reach out to Milt.
45. But like a drunkard, he batted her arm away.
46. He raised and pressed a shaky forefinger to his lips; then jabbed it in her direction.
47. "Tell the tale," and Milt sank to his knees.
48. All expression drained from his face.
49. Milt felt short of breath; he sucked the mist stertorously, too weak to hold it in; too weak to expand his blood-filling lungs.
50. "Tell it..." and his head slowly bent over and led the rest of his body down.
51. The crumpled hat slid over his face, paused there briefly, and then drifted off blithely, like a feather.
52. His left hand fell open across the polished nails of the shiny-black, open-toed pump arching her right heel, as with her left, up five inches.
53. The ring rolled off his palm, and it continued on, until it reached the center of a dark puddle in the middle of the street.
54. Natalie leisurely closed her eyes, and, just as leisurely, she breathed in the clean, damp mist.
55. She would not be rushed, not even in the face of death.
56. Bart took aim with his cold eyes; everything else about him wavered.
57. When the weapon discharged he turned his head half around—as if in surprise—as if Lew or somebody else had fired.
58. The blast carved a small crater out of the street.
59. Granules of Piccochi Ave. sprayed Natalie in the face.
60. Somewhere, the ring—more a scarred twist of metal now than anything else—clinked lightly out of the lives of all present.
61. Bart let gravity take the emptied Smith & Wesson 39 from his hand.
62. The pistol hit the street with a metallic slap .
63. Bart kicked it and it spun on the damp pavement toward its victim.
64. Lew patted him on the arm and Bart replied by planting an elbow squarely into his stomach.
65. Lew sucked air, bent just a bit, grimaced, and said, “Nice one. Let’s beat it, huh?”
66. Bart balled his fists, cracked his knuckles, and took a heavy step forward.
67. Natalie’s legs buckled and she felt herself fall straight down; felt herself hit the curb, hard.
68. She landed beside the bloody heap of flesh and bone and fabric—along with a substantial amount of freshly stopped lead—that once comprised the embodiment of one Milt McQuarry.
69. Lew stretched a hand out fast, grabbed, and said, “Chomp, that’s enough .”
70. Bart yanked away, tearing his overcoat’s woolen sleeve where it met the shoulder.
71. He said, “Anywhere but at me…” She barely made out his words. “Eh, Natalie?”
72. Gunfire’s lingering echo filled her head.
73. It had the effect of lead fists punching her skull out from within.
74. Another hard-elbow to the ribs and Bart would’ve been free of Lew’s grasp.
75. “You’ll stare at the rat piss streaming down the gutter,” he said. “Won’t ya?” —Bart, at last, felt the weight of the night press down— “Before raisin’ another eye to me…”
76. Lew crammed him into the backseat, slammed the door, and then, very deliberately, wiped one hand against the other.
77. Bart reached for the handle; the door popped ajar.
78. Lew kicked it shut again.
79. He winced in at his boss and jerked a stiff finger at him—to stay put.
80. Bart turned away.
81. Disgust and self-loathing permeated his expression.
82. The flask was lying beside him.
83. It glared up at Bart, its metal reflecting the bright, eye-stinging sheen of a streetlamp.
84. Bart squinted, swore, clawed it up and squeezed—hoping it would crush like a soda can.
85. He listened to his own labored breathing and stared down at the flask and at the trembling beet-colored fingers pressed around it.
86. He spun the cap free, it fell, bounced off his knee, left a small stain of whiskey; and where it landed, it rolled out of view beneath the seat.
87. As Lew settled behind the wheel he heard Bart mumble a toast.
88. “To Big Hearts,” Bart tilted the flask to his lips, then stopped, “…and Rat Bastards.”
89. He guzzled the remnants and launched the flask—not through, but—against the window.
90. It clanked the glass hard and ricocheted back, smack-dab into his forehead.
91. Lew caught it all by way of the rearview.
92. He stifled a snort.
93. “Hey,” he cracked, “you asked for bulletproof.”
94. Bart could feel a red welt bulge just above his left eyebrow.
95. He inhaled sharply and shook off the sting and clenched his fury around the grip of his side-armed Colt .45.
96. Unholstered, the barrel pressed into the seat, into Lew’s back, he leaned forward and whispered, “There’s one left, all for you, you want it?”
97. Lew shoved his finger against one amongst a bank of small levers on his door; behind him, the window to Bart's left motored down.
98. Lew said, “ Take Two , Chomp,” through clenched teeth.
99. Bart chucked the flask, along with a few choice expletives, out the open window; Lew stomped the accelerator and the wheels squealed off.
100. She wasn’t looking at Milt, at what was left of Milt, she was looking at his hat—the wind rolling it down the damp street, on its brim, rolling it— chasing — right after Chomple's car...

...without feeling the urge to vomit...

Just in case you were wondering... (And just in case you were reading...) I am not in any way upset with you. You have done nothing wrong. I am the immature one. I am the one who can't rein-in the bullshit. And you can be damn sure that I will never stand in your way. I never have; I never will. (Although, I think you have a few lousy habits. And, one day, I may even grill you on their worth.) From you, I expect great things. (And, one day, I hope to be great enough in my own right so that the above statement carries a certain degree of weight.) Still, I think you aim too low, but, I barely know you, so, that is entirely conjecture. I do this — It's nothing new — Putting the likes of you up on a pedestal. It's really fucked up. It doesn't do anyone a lick of good. But that's learned behavior for you. (Unless it's conditioned behavior for you.) And, to be perfectly frank would require putting it in truly pathetic terms. I
Do something long enough and you’re likely to develop a certain proficiency, or, at the very least, a certain degree of confidence. Ideally, you’ll achieve both proficiency and confidence. However, is confidence alone demonstrative of success? Confidence, as you know, does not prove competence. (And , oh , the examples I could provide!) But must success be measured in terms of amassed wealth and/or fame? Generally, yes, I suppose so. But only generally, and very generally. Specifically , things can be very different. Yet we all adhere to our own measure—the standards of which will fluctuate throughout our lives; the limits of which will be adjusted depending upon the exhaustion of our mental and/or physical facilities. We’ll all keep butting into that brick wall ( some brick wall), until we burst through…to the next—each one more tenacious than the last (perhaps). As you know , They say: “Persistence.” But one never knows…until, perhaps, one becomes one of Them . They/T
…and then again… “Let me put it this way—someone once told me never to listen to advice from anyone who doesn’t have a vested interest in your success.” –David Mamet
…but then this occurred to him: that you must have—that you must apply and commit yourself to — some “School of Thought,” some “Technique,” or some “Approach” in order to abandon it, Some Day. Yes—it occurred to him, and perhaps not for the first time in his life—that you must have “rules,” and you must embrace these “rules,” so to one day, of course, bend, and then break them. Otherwise, there is no true Liberation; no “Original” or “Pioneering” Artistry, if ever.
“Artists don’t wonder, ‘What is it good for?’ They aren’t driven to ‘create art,’ or to ‘help people,’ or to ‘make money.’ They are driven to lessen the burden of the unbearable disparity between their conscious and unconscious minds, and so to achieve peace.” –Mamet, 3 Uses Of The Knife
A: I don’t trust compliments. B: Why not? A: Because there’s rarely anything to be gained from a criticism. B: Wait. Who rarely gains what ? A: Whoever is issuing the criticism. There’s rarely anything that person can gain. B: And the one being criticized? A: A world of knowledge.
“…art, the organic medium for arbitration between the conscious and subconscious…” –Mamet, 3 Uses Of The Knife
A: He says, over the past month, he’s been somewhat self-destructive. B: Why? A: He says there’s never just one reason. In fact, he says, the reasons keep piling on.
“It is not that great art reveals a great truth, but that it stills a conflict—by airing it rather than rationalizing it. (The repression is the neurosis, as Freud said.)” –Mamet, 3 Uses Of The Knife
Some of us implode or explode in order to pick up the pieces— just to have pieces to pick up; just to have something (different) to do. Some of us are just THAT bored, or just THAT lonely, or just THAT human, or just THAT fill-in-the-blank.
“We will have drama in that spot, and if it’s not forthcoming we will cobble it together out of nothing.” –Mamet, 3 Uses Of The Knife
The strategically located furniture throughout the elegant Northbrook Court shopping center—I rarely use it. But when I do fancy a sit-down between, perhaps, Brooks Brothers on one side, the Sharper Image on the other, Marshal Fields behind me, and the AMC multiplex ahead in the distance, I generally find the posh sofa or love seat or recliner too soft or too firm or too big. Nevertheless, that furniture, I’m glad it’s always there.
When the Army shipped Richie Cunningham off to Greenland, I didn’t realize Ron Howard actually left the show. I waited through every subsequent episode for his return. Because, you see, I identified with Richie Cunningham. I yearned to see his expected cross-over into the Thumbs-Up “Ayyy” Universe of Arthur Fonzarelli Coolness. I wanted to chart the course—so that, one day, I, myself, could embark on the enlightening journey toward all that is Fonzie; and also so that, one day, I could raise my head and proudly say, “Yes, I Jumped The Shark. And all by myself, too.” How many of us can honestly say that we’ve reached the point of the Jumped Shark? How many of us have truly —and even boldly —gone that far?
Dad once told me to drink my orange juice before all of the Vitamin C escaped. I didn’t believe him. Nevertheless, I did what I was told. So, he can’t say I wasn’t a good boy at least once .
…so difficult to savor , to capture the Ecstasy of Her … … clinging to her and knowing it was fleeting ... …and yet clinging to her harder still… ...and harder still... ...what's left now... ...a trace of an embrace... ...a whiff of kissed skin... ...a fantasy, all over again...
Excerpt From A Fan Q & A... FAN: Anyway, listen—I wanted to ask if you consider yourself a materialist. Meaning, that everything exists in the here and now, Earth-based. And if so, if this outlook explains the emphasis on sex in your writing. FIREVANEY: Anyway, no. I do not consider myself a materialist. I consider myself a virus masquerading as a highly evolved life form. Honestly, I do. However, everything DOES exist in the here and now. Anything that DOES NOT exist in the here and now simply doesn't exist. Spoken like a true virus, eh? And the only reason I write about sex so much has to do with the fact that it's been so long since I've had any.
Saturday afternoon: attended a funeral for somebody I’d met only once—at a funeral for somebody else (of course) I’d met only once. Such is life living amongst geriatrics.
Unless we’re talkin’ like a drug-induced insanity, I’m no longer a firm believer in the “ Somethin' Just Snapped ” switch-over into madness. Naw, my money’s on a more gradual descent into that which is Pure C R A Z Y .
Only now, I pass by all these gifts perfect for the would-be girlfriend.
After a certain lapse in our correspondence—of which I am mostly to blame—he wrote, “What are you doing?” And I wrote back, “Gaining weight.” Which is true.
And then there’s the recurrent nightmare about failing light switches…
BULLSHIT. * * what isn't ?
The packaging makes it Art .
HER : I love you. HIM : (Nods. Pause.) Finish the thought. HER : I did. HIM : You didn’t. HER : I did. That was all. I love you — HIM : Like a brother — Like. A. Brother.
All that is “Art” and all that is “Entertainment” is a manipulation of the senses. Thus, to be amused is to be fooled at your own risk.
A: This is just pissing the wall. B: And? A: And? It’s all we ever do. B: Yes. We’re accomplished. A: Accomplished? B: At something. A: At pissing the wall. B: That’s right. What's more? We’ve great aim. A: Yes. Mentally and physically. B: Yes.
Life isn’t worth living unless you are sharing it; even if you are, at the very least, sharing it with a self-acknowledged fantasy.
Hold my breath. Catch my breath.
Writing is dwelling, but better than simply dwelling. Writing is the purging of the plaguing thought. Although the sickness—a virus, if you will, of conscious and perhaps unconscious and certainly continuous Agony —can never be fully expelled from the system. Or maybe I just need drugs.
The aim (now) is to write plays no one, in their right mind, would produce; to write short stories and novels no one, in their right mind, would publish. This way, the pressure’s off. And all that’s left is the “fun.”
“…to be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from it desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping.” —Samuel Beckett