S T R E A M # 1 1

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FireVaney’s gonna write. He’s gonna write and write and write. And write. He’s gonna write until all the money runs out. He’s gonna write until he goes blind. He’s gonna write until his fingers give out. Write, until he has to take Pop somewhere. Or feed him. Or administer medication. FireVaney, he’s gonna write until they pull the plug. Write, until he blacks out. Write, until the carpal tunnel says, “Enough.” To be clear, he’s not TOTALLY bonkers. No, he’s still gonna shower. He’s still gonna eat his Wheaties. He’s still gonna run his daily mile (and then some). He’s still gonna catch a summer blockbuster or two. Or three. And he’s still got a list of authors to read before the year is through. So, there’s all that. So, no, he won’t be writing every second of every day. He’s still gotta vacuum and mop the floor and do the laundry and water the lawn. So, sure, you betcha, he’s gonna meet his obligations. And he ain’t gonna neglect his few good friends, neither. But the rest of it? All that has gotta go. FireVaney? Though he’s been “blessed” with time, he’s done little more than squander it. NO MORE! What did he scribble in the back of his notepad yesterday? What’s that there in red? That “epiphany.” Right after the workout? There, in his cramped, paint-peeled bedroom; there, freshly showered and still in the scud? On his knees, there, praying to Nobody and yet to Somebody or Some Thing because he’s been conditioned to? Because there’s no one else to turn to, save for a Higher Power? Even though it makes no sense. (But that’s the point, right? That’s why it’s called, “faith.”) What he scribbled down was this: 

“Don’t cater. Create.” 

That’s right. Fuck it. Fuck ‘em all. The Markets, the Trends, the March of Technology. Fuck it. Fuck ‘em all. This is about Expression. Sure, odds are, he’s gonna get steamrolled – and sooner rather than later. Fuck it. Fuck ‘em all. Don’t FUCKING cater. FUCKING Create. Why? Because: HE. CAN. (That is, at least, for the time being. It could all change tomorrow. Although, it’s more likely to all change ten or twenty years from now. Maybe thirty. Depends on just how frugal he is and how long his health holds out.) Yes, no women, no children, no debt (yet), no chronic pain (yet). No terminal illness (yet). But who the fuck cares, anyway? Someday, who knows? But you won’t find “Someday” on the calendar, will you? Anyway, he’s got the time. That’s the “blessing.” Time. (Seemingly, seemingly.) His faith, if at all, is in Time.* Unless he’s grasped this too late. Sans foreknowledge, one cannot say. Cars crash. Terrorists attack. Heart attacks. The most likely one is the heart attack, he’s so fucking stressed out. Nevertheless, for the foreseeable future (whatever that means), time is on his side. Can you say the same about yourself? Then again, you’ve apparently had the time to read this shit. Bottom. Reached. 

1 June 2008 

*[08/07/22: Hencethus all the watches, eh?] 

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