View Full Version : The rest of the Chapter...if you want any more go buy it.

10-21-05, 11:10 PM
DAY 14
The red numbers on the clock are three, two, and four. The upper circle at the top is light indicating A.M. I hate the large face of the clock. I hate its LCD display; I hate its silence. The whole package is so over the top, so unnecessary, so gaudy and efficient. My clock would be small, silver, and heavy. Its face would be white with black roman numerals and hands. My clock would audibly tick off the passage of time. My clock would have to be wound. It would have no cord. And when the room is dark its face would be dark. It would be a tool for telling time only. It would not be some ****ing glowing neon reminder of how little sleep youíve had or how many hours had passed in front of a blank page. I would probably forget to wind it and loose all sense of time. Waking and dreaming would become one in the same for there would be no buzzer or digits to differentiate the two.

DAY 15
In this room I am the last man on earth. I have all the time in the world to create. I am free of the conventional notion of work. I sleep when Iím tired. I can shake with fear without being looked at. I can drink without having to speak. I am alone in a cavernous expanse that is language. I am the man in the old episode of the Twilight Zone. The world has ended and I am alone with the one thing that matters, too him it was the library full of books with which he was alone. He has all the time in the world to be alone with his books; his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. I am he alone with the blank page and all the words in creation at my disposal. His joy is unforced is real and fulfilling. He momentarily looses his glasses. He searches frantically for them, for without them all his time and all these books are useless, a crunch of glass under his foot. His dream is over, his glasses are broken. He is alone, he has no hope of getting new glasses, and he is blind. I am he. I am alone with all the time and words in the world. I never heard a crunch, I only feel the panic and know that the tool I need to make use of what I have been given is lost under some unseen heal, broken and irreplaceable. The clock now reads four eleven a.m. in monstrous red.

DAY 16
I am an inky spider. Curled a ball of unusable thoughts. I collapse inward with the hope that my density will transfer to thought and paper. That damn manuscript took away my center. I found the center by writing in ever tightening concentric circles. I did not stray as I do now. This is a jagged thing. Lightning scar tissue firing off at random cracks in a windshield. Writing in metaphor, how stupid this has become. I could see it then. I was always moving toward the goal. It was always in sight. My eyes consumed and my brain processed, my fingers drifted like sails on its wind. Iím looking back. This is dangerous. Can anything be more dangerous than this process? Iím opening myself up too recall, to events and feelings that have been locked away for a reason. Iím sweating. My eyes flutter. Iím focusing too hard. This art is supposed to be genuine, fluid, and natural. Not to be overanalyzed. Every mark of punctuation comes at a price now. Detail should be left to the reader's mind, not thrown like mud. Abstract art can be beautiful, abstract art can be an excuse. Which is this? No, this is not even abstract. Itís ridiculous in its simplicity. It has no inherent message; there is no story here. I am not creating emotion or even generating thought. I am simply breathing out words in fits and starts in the hopes of finding the center. It can not sustain itself indefinitely without a center. Itís unraveling to quickly. A spider on acid spinning an asymmetrical web that will catch no flies. A lighting rod of unfocused energy. Movement on top of movement on top of movement of fingers on the keyboard. No focus, no magic, no center. Sunset casting a glare on broken glass. No reds or purples or violets. No blue, no sun. Just the blinding ray in the eye without the benefit of the big picture. I am spinning out of control. Iím driving at it too hard and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, so I am pushing it away. My mind is in a Chinese finger trap and I keep pulling, struggling. Iím drowning myself in my own words. They are pilling up around me, cutting me off with their lack of meaning. I am going to drown in the mediocrity of my own creation.

DAY 17
This is all so exhausting. Mind marathon. You know how your legs feel after a long run, like jelly. Your mind can feel like jelly. The muscle becomes weak if you do not exercise it constantly. It might take me years to get this mind back into shape. This is not like riding a bike. The creative drive remains but the tools that I am working with have become dull. The images and feelings of my mind are still clear to me. The sculpture already exists inside this block of stone. To release it I must sharpen my tools.
What is Larry doing? I read one of his new stories today. His toolbox is inadequate. He settles. Yes, he is more prolific than I am. Yes, he has a better grasp of form and plot. Yes, he can create ďbelievableĒ characters. Yes, he did just sign a deal for his new book. Yes, he is doing what he loves but does he realize how truly mediocre his creations are? Thousands of people can do what he does. Millions of people can do what Iím doing now. He is not trying to push on the wall. He is too convinced that the wall is solid. Iím trying to focus on the wall again. I have to get my feet on solid ground before I can approach the wall. He is there already. He walks right by it and never has the balls to push, to touch, and to ask it a question. What does he expect me to say? (Congratulations on the new book Larry, itís so middle of the road...You sure lulled me into your world of plot points and characterization...Man, your punctuation was dead on...Wow, when you had the detective tell of the captain I was forced to question the very nature of art!) What I did say was nothing. My eyes must seem so empty to him. My petty jealousy is revolting but that doesnít change the fact that he is driving the speed limit. He doesnít want to drag anything up. His works are raised ranches of form and style, well built, great use of space, inexpensive, perfectly designed mediocrity. My work is still a wet cardboard box. A mash of pulp and grease. Itís uncomfortable, it gives me no shelter from the elements, it stinks, itís rotting as we speak, itís too small, but Iím in here with my rusted tools and Iím sharpening them very slowly, one by one. Itís only a matter of time. Maybe this box will hold if the rain stops.

DAY 18
As the days pass the noise from the outside world is growing. I donít know if I will ever to be able to go outside again. The noise of teenagers talking, I think theyíre arguing. I canít understand them. Iím pretty sure theyíre speaking English. Car horns and screeching tires compete with them. All the dogs on the block are barking. Glass breaks, car alarms shriek, garbage cans echo hollow noise. Was that a gunshot or a car backfiring? What are they arguing about? I donít think itís just here, in the city, this din, this artless sea of noise. Their noise is everywhere. If I was alone in the deepest wood or in a cave their damage has already been done. Itís in my head (clichť, accurate clichť), their noise. These words have reverted to the realm of simple noise. Silent noise on paper. As they are read they become, they will rattle around in your head. You will hear their noise filtered through my own. Iím aware that all this noise may be harmless. Iím not insane. Iím just afraid. Their argument continues, it should not affect me. They donít even know that I can hear them. The window is only slightly cracked. I canít close it. I need some air. I want this ringing to stop. I need my concentration here. I need to work these keys. I need to work these words into shapes. I need to make air. I need to hear the sea. I need to feel the sun, within these words. I must create that which I can no longer seek out. I have to make this my world. If I canít live in their world I will force them to live in mine. I will create it here. I can kill their noise with words. There will be no noise in my world. Silence in brief refreshing waves. Closed eyes in living silence.

DAY 19
The very nature of language is in question here. Its own viability as a form of communication is under attack from these fingers. I want to beat these symbols that we call words at there own game. Imagine, if you will, a word that conjures up a different image in every individual on the planet. Maybe itís not a word but a grouping of words, sounds have this capacity, why not words? I can answer that question, so it was a stupid question to ask. A word is a group of symbols used to represent an object, an emotion, or a thought. The utterance of a word, although technically a sound, is meant to conjure up the corresponding image in the mind of the recipient of the sound. Pure sound has no such motive. Sure, minor keys sound ďsadĒ when played on a piano or a guitar but this is not due to any man made regulations; it simply elicits that reaction from the majority of the people who hear it. Words, on the other hand, where created with the idea of controlling people in mind. Words where nessessary to create law and religion. Words where necessary to keep order. Now how can a set of rules designed to control and deaden the natural and artistic impulses of a populace be used as a true artistic medium of self-expression? Are we not reinforcing the very things, which have made us afraid and captive all of our lives, when we write using a language designed to cage the sprit? What then would be the alternative, silence? Is visual art purer in its vision? Is all writing an exercise in futility due to the very nature of the rules to which one must conform to be understood? We should destroy language with language. Cause words to eat their own tails. Make sentences negate themselves and disappear, as they become an individual image created by the reader. Refuse to spell correctly, not due to ignorance, but in revolt. Make the reader stop and say ďhey thatís spelled wrongĒ. Whoís the idiot in that situation? The writer who spelled the word wrong knowingly or the reader who is wasting their time trying to catch a mistake in a manuscript rather than attempting to absorb its message? Donít be like Larry, donít think that a halfway decent story and good grammar are the sum total of the possibilities of the written word. Write like the keys are individual notes. All the keys make slightly different sounds when struck, so why not ignore the pattern of spelling and grammar that has been drilled into your head and simply strike the keys for their individual sound? That would be nonsense the academic might say, true but at least its not unoriginal, at least the sounds that you made meant something to you and are now captured and could be repeated if desired. Anyway, wouldnít all words be nonsense if order and rule had not been imposed upon them by whatever king or despot ruled at the time. Do you want to perpetuate a dead language for the sake of publication and monetary reward? Do you want to be controlled by language or would you rather create, simply create for its own sake? Create because you have to. Create because it's better than being dead. Create because you hate disease, hunger, and hatred. Maybe you will never change a thing in this world except yourself but at least you proved to yourself beyond a reasonable doubt that you where here that you where, for a moment in time, a sentient being blessed with the power of creation.

DAY 20
I am so tired. Iíve been on this earth for less than thirty years and I am dead tired. My muscles already ache an old manís ache. My nerves are spastic and quivering. My mind is over wrought with the past. I worry a lifetime's worth of worry. My thinking is becoming static and immovable. I canít imagine going out with ďpeople my own ageĒ, going to a club or taking ecstasy. I can't imagine putting my body and mind through the trials of chasing after women. My dreams are the fantasies of art and immortality; the dreams of old men are my dreams. The feeling that it has already all been ripped away and that what is left will soon follow are with me always. I can not ever remember feeling young or free. This drive, this need to create is my only saving grace and yet at every turn I have or at least have tried to sabotage it. I never have fully believed in my gift or if I have believed I felt that it was fleeting at best, always behind me. If I ever spoke to anyone on the telephone my whisky and cigarette cracked throughout along with my general disdain of the modern world would sound old and impassive. This beard I feel growing on my face must be gray. I picture it as being gray. I wonít look in the mirror here. I donít want to prove myself right in that way. I so thuroghtly believe in the bad elements of my thoughts and personality, they seem intrinsic and unstoppable. The hope, the love, and the fantasy of goodness seem a pose. They seem wrong. They make me feel like a liar. I know this is all very self-pitying but I want you to see. Help me to believe. This can not be in vain, even if this pursuit is purely one of vanity.

DAY 21
My stomach is a knot. I know itís not the booze, although that never did help it much. Itís this, this attempt at having my way with words. It knots me up. Ties up all ambition and faith in a tightly wrapped package. The one promising present under the Christmas tree, the one that you shake and toil over. Is it, the present, the actual shape and size of the package that itís in? No, it canít be, itís a trick. They wrapped the small package in a bigger box in order to throw me off. It has got to be that one, the big one. No, that would be too obvious, they must have hidden it underneath some of the more practical presents. Then after all the poking, prodding, deciphering, second guessing, shaking, and plotting Christmas morning comes and you discover that the best present was in that stupid little box wrapped in newspaper (sneaky suckers donít ya think?). You should have known that it was in that box, it was so obvious. Year after year the same puzzle until you get old enough and donít care anymore. This box Iím shaking now will not yield its contents or meaning. Christmas day will never come. The bow remains intact even after a thousand generations of thinking minds and groping hands.

DAY 22
Now Iíve hit the wall. Whatís next, using the cut-up technique? Random associations maybe? What the **** is the point of this futile exercise? I bid you adieu. You sit hear and listen to the hum.
Pith Mallard slipped out of Larry Kentís window. Climbed down the fire escape. Took the bottle from his pocket, took a pull and started walking. Words fled from his mind and he was grateful that there was no one else in the ally. He looked up, his foot hit upon a raised brick and his ankle twisted in an unholy manner.
Having no key to the front door of the apartment building Pith spent the next half-hour crawling back to the ladder of the fire escape proceeded to climb it and land back in his room. His ankle was now swollen and throbbing. Fortunately the bottle in his pocket was still intact and between deep sighs of pain his drank. After finishing the bottle and finding that it afforded little relief to the pain in his ankle he decided to venture into Larryís kitchen in search of a bottle, he found none. Dismayed he never the less wrestle some ice from a blue plastic tray in the freezer and wrapped them in a dishtowel and made his way to the bathroom in search of some aspirin. He opened Larryís medicine cabinet and found a bottle of aspirin, he swallowed three with no water and as he was about to close the glass door an orange prescription bottle caught his eye. The bottleís yellow labels warned of drowsiness and there deleterious effects in combination with alcohol, clearly printed on the white labile was Larryís name, address, and the instructions for use (Take one tablet every 6 hours, as needed, for pain). Pith did not recognize the name of the pills in question but he was in pain and despite his mild apprehension about pills in general opened the bottle and let two bright orange pills fall into his hand. He looked at the small round pills briefly, the letters O/C clearly stamped into the side, and swallowed them again without water. Pith returned to his room, closed and locked the door and sat staring at the screen in front of him, his own last lines and his pain mocking him, and held the ice packed cloth on his enflamed ankle.
After twenty minutes Pith began to feel the pain in his ankle dissipate at an astonishing rate. Though still annoyed at the lack of alcohol in the house and the fact that is attempt to leave the room had been thwarted by a raised brick Pithís mind started to hum gently with a growing warmth. The warmth was not one that he could place; it was not the warmth of scotch on a rain soaked street. It was more secure, more controlled and its pleasure was of the floating variety. Pith also noted that the words on the screen no longer mocked him, in fact he reread them and felt a sense of mild promise in their composition. Pith removed the now half melted ice pack from his ankle, set his fingers down on the keyboard and began to type with the hope of creating something with form and grace.
The steady rush of the pills at the onset leveled and had not yet fallen. Pith was writing. His writing was coherent enough to be considered good fiction. He had written a short story the plot and point of which is unimportant at this point. The point that does matter is that Pith had chosen to work for several hours in a recognized and well-accepted form of writing, the short story. Now, one may be impressed with this feat, especially if one had read the story for it was quite good indeed, if one was to ignore the fact that the creation of a well accepted and well crafted work was less important to Pithís growth as an artist. The momentary lapse back to the accepted caused by a false sense of security. Pith had been carried back to a time when simple structure and plot was the end all and be all of art. One does not write a masterwork, which broadens and questions the very nature of not only language but also reality and then become a competent composer of short stories. In short, Raymond Carver did Raymond Carver quite well enough so that Pith Mallard could work alone and let his mind create words outside the lines of the paper.
Pith Mallard finished his short story after several hours of diligent work. He felt good. He felt as though that this one simple act of creation had redeemed him as an artist. He sat back in his chair and sighed, letting the warmth of fulfillment rush though his body. The sun had now set and Pith wrapped himself in a small blanket, rested his head on the arm of the couch at the far corer of the room and fell fast asleep.

DAY 23
He woke up at a red and mocking three a.m. His ankle was enflamed and broken. He had sweat through his blanket and he hated the short story on his computer screen. He looked absently at the wall for the better parts of an hour, letting the pain in his ankle keep him alive. He could not believe that himself had written the short story on his screen. It was vapid, and wholly unconvincing in its direction and action. The story reminded Pith of geometry proof for it lacked and room for error on the part of the reader and its point was singular and unchanable. As Pith stared at the ceiling and felt his leg he decided that in order to figure out whether this story was entirely the fault of the pills that he ingested to take several more. He grabbed more ice from the freezer and more pills from the bathroom. He decided to sit and stare at the walls until the pills began to take hold, and only then would his experiment begin. By the time the pain in his ankle began to dull and become passive, his head swelled with glowing warmth. Pith kept repeating the word ďobjectiveĒ to himself as a mantra. The waves where getting bigger. Caution strong undertow of euphoric warmth, ďobjectiveĒ. Pith then began to write.
This disconnection is from all pain of the body and mind. It is not as if all pain disappears and leaves you in a normal state and simply pain free, these pills seem to lull the pain out of the muscle and bone in warm salty waves. Waves of shimmering freedom. Waves of itch. Yes, it gives one two distinct feelings at the same time one of disconnection from the body, and yet also the urges to connect with the body through simple acts such as itching ones own skin. I realize that this writing is quite bad. Larger ideas loom off in the distance out of reach. Only the most surface of thoughts will allow themselves to surface in this foam. How lazy and fake this all is. I want a drink. I will probably die by the drink. That last sentence is so loaded with romantic notions of art and destruction it requires a deep understanding of history in art. It is also quite honest for in fact I do believe it. The notion that alcohol and drugs are a springboard for artistic creation (no, artistic integrity may be a better word) is nonsense. Drink or drug will never stir the uncreative mind. And the dry mind of creativity is too loud at times and must be soaked in order to create something tangible from the din. Coping mechanisms abound in this writing and yet I fully believe myself when I say such things. On the streets I lied to myself. I wanted to believe that the need of creation could be killed. That maybe if some drink was required to quite the mind, that copious drink could kill the desire. I could not. Never the less it still feel that this exercise is rather flimsily in both its objective and its scope. Nothing will come from this but at least it is free in a simple way. And it saves me from writing short stories. Thank God that the composition of the short story was not entirely the fault of these pills for I rather like them.
What stupid observations I seem capable of making at this moment. I almost feel capable of describing things that can not be put into words, anything grand but simple thoughts fill my mind. I do not wish to commit them to paper in this condition and where I not in this state. The phone is ringing in the other room. The phone has been ringing allot lately and Larryís presence has become scarce. Who keeps calling? I know that he has been working on his writing quite a bit and often he has been coming home late and drunk. He seems to be falling for the old burn the candle at both ends illusion that seems to grip many bad artists. Ah, that statement doesnít seem fare to Larry to label him a bad artist seems spiteful and unnecessary. Who am I to question the validity of that which he commits to the page. That right became a thing of the past when our works became mutually exclusive from one another. He has heart but unfortunitly his mind grasps on to the idea of becoming a writer through editorial commentary rather that too simply accept himself as an artist for its own sake.
Pith picked up a newspaper and folded two of the pages in on themselves in order to see if any interesting presented itself.
Just at dusk a colorful, chanting group of the inner fence in.
The pencils made a witty substitute enforced their ranks.
She had no problem mixing wide phalanxes of 50 to 100 riot police.
Black- and- white foot medals away!
Congress from threw away others.
Pith looked at the sentences. These sentences are more interesting and thought provoking than anything that I have written today. What does this say about the nature of language? It seems entirely possible to me that forced meaning and symbolism are in fact dead and that the last possible method of communication is the subtlety of context clobbered over the head with the seemingly non-sencical. We create meaning, words are mearly a poorly created vehicle only useful in getting oneself from point A to point B with as little freedom as possible. I am this languageís slave. I am the fool. I am here not to create meaning but to solidify the accepted notions of language. And yet by writing I seem to believe that I am liberating something deep within myself. So am I a slave or am I liberated? That is the very question that I am attempting to answer with my own chains.

DAY 24
Larry took the pills with him today. Possibly he noticed that some where missing and decided to remedy the problem without a conflict. Perhaps he just took them without thinking too deeply about the reason. Having your hands shake under their own power is frightening. Now picture a body full, inside and out, of various shaking parts. The donít shake all at once but the problem is that you never know which one of your neurons will set of a twitch in a muscle or where it will be. You feel like lying still but after a few moments you realize that lying still is not lying still if you body twitches continuously. So you get up, walk around the room a few times, realize that life is not opening up any new doors to the future by your strange ritualistic walking. So you sit, cross and uncross your legs. Your head feels heavy. You lie down again. But this time your attention is drawn to your half full bladder, you think ĎIt would be a shame to fall asleep and wake up only a half an hour later having to use the bathroomí. So you get up and use the bathroom and find that it was all a very bad joke and barley a trickle falls from your flaccid penis. You know that laying down now would be useless. All this time your mind is consumed with the idea that you should be writing, you are a writer, just sit down and write whatever comes to mind. Be the artist you pretend to be. Have something tactile, have something on paper as proof to the existence of this day and time. The more you think about writing the more difficult it becomes to face the page. You convince yourself that to write you must be brilliant, every word that you place on paper is the end all and be all of your very existence. Your soul and character will be entirely based on the words you compose in the coming hour and if your words and steeped in mediocrity or lies you have only proven to yourself that you where right all along, the mask falls off and you lay down watching your hands tremble and wonder when something will happen.

DAY 25
The pain of writing aside, what one hopes to accomplish by placing their soul on paper is the hopes that some day people will discover your words and see the shinning essence of all that is you. But suppose that they donít like the shinning essence that is you. Suppose they would rather dwell on a misspelled word or skip an entire paragraph because a witty commercial came on the Television. This is a poor substitute for glimpsing the soul of another but what other choice do I have?

DAY 26
I know what you want. I know what you need. You require a story; a tale filled with all that you think makes us human. You want love, sacrifice, pain, and redemption. You want me to write a story that makes you feel alive, one that makes you believe in the triumph of the human spirit. You will not get this story from me. Could I write it? Probably not. Do I wish to, certainly not. Youíve had your Poeís and youíve destroyed them. You canít look the geniuses of your own generation with a straight face. You think them to be fakes and carbon copies off that which came before, you revile them for all that you want them to be. To you the only thing worse than being a storyteller is to be honest. You treat your William Burroughsís, your Henry Millerís, your Walt Whitmanís as dirty old men who jack off on park benches. You say that you want art to rip back the vale and expose the sick underbelly of the American dream. They did, you had your chance. Only fifty years later when they are safe and dead are they fit to be discussed in the smoke and espresso of the intellectual. We are out here now. We are writing what we feel, we will not tell you stories, and we will not be witty to make you crack a smile. And consequently we are destined to remain unread; maybe thatís the best solution, god forbid we change anything in this world. Then what would you have to complain about in your hundred dollar sunglasses over your six-dollar coffee?
Does this sound pretentious? Am I now just the angry struggling artist baying at the moon? Whining for attention. Spoiled and presumptuous trying in you, the reader, and the gain some love and respect that my family did not give to me? A yes, this would be one analysis, and it is one that is not entirely incorrect but please think before you jump off any cliffs with that theory strapped to your back. It might fail. Analysis me all you want, through this process I am becoming, your process of simple dissection means very little too the final outcome of this manuscript. The final outcome is my soul. You canít see it and you will never comprehend it, so maybe you should stop trying. This society holds up **** art to the mirror and expects us to praise it and we do. Even more freighting is that some of this **** art draws comparisons to manuscripts of the soul. We are to quick to judge a writer the next Salinger or the next Fitzgerald, these terms themselves have no place in any discussion of art. Do we ever call a newfound gemstone the next platinum? We need heroes so badly that we would rather elevate the mediocre to the level of greatness rather than nurture and embrace the truly talented by giving them a place to grow and expand. Oneís first novel is very rarely his greatest and it is a dageronus thing to think so.

DAY 27
Where then does the writer find himself in relation to the public for whose love he longs? I am convinced that the public will never discover the greatest writers on this earth right now. Am I saying this out of some deep-rooted frustration and hope that it is true in my case? Possibly, but regardless, the artist is solitary by nature. One must be alone to compose. One who writes about parties runs out of words when he runs out of parties or worse yet he never runs out of parties and looses his need for written words. Talent is as dangerous as fame is deadly. We expect our writers to emerge in full blame from dry dirt. Why should I water the flowers, if they are so beautiful then let them find their way towards the sun without me. More often then not we find artists and heroes like a man wearing tacky Bermuda shorts and a white visor, metal detector in hand looking for the lost treasure that he is sure is just around the next sand dune. Another rusted penny from nineteen-sixty. Well thatís good enough. Treasure, treasure, its everywhere...I was just walking along and there was this rusted penny, the splendor of it all. Patience and practice are two of the lectures no longer afforded to promising young writers...quick give him five million dollars before he learns how to use a clause properly.

DAY 28
O.K. why does no one talk about vomiting, unless it involves addiction, I Puke almost everyday and yet a writer, youíre geniuses puke there guts out every ****ing day. Or maybe they donít, regardless vomit is not a good topic of literature. It makes us all real. Our stomachs are all made of the same material. Alcohol makes us happy up to a point. Once the point is past our bodies' rebel against our brains, we loose. We get loose and we loose our minds break under the pressure. A porcelain bowl a cool spot to rest your head, right? You donít want to picture the red and green slime in the bowl. The aborted fetus that is a part of you. It makes death a reality when you see a piece of your stomach, maybe your liver, dissolve in water. You will die. This is the only proof that I ever existed. The vomit is long gone, cleaned in some half-rate purification tank. I would not exist without this work. You do not exist until you create. Memories are easily forgotten.

DAY 29
Rot, fabulous rot makes us valid (us? for whom exactly am I speaking?). Life is so cool and fun. Everyday is spring break. Loaded on rum, walking along the beach trying to decide which broad to take home tonight. Yeah, donít we all have it made. The sun is shining and a mother of three is rapped, dismembered and thrown in a dumpsite. Let's go back to my dorm room and listen to Hendrix, I got some kind bud. The sun is shining as a young man is killed in a daylight drug deal. My grandmother just got her morphine prescription filled to fight the pain of cancer, want to steal it and get loaded? A five-year-old has aids. The sun is shiny. A man ten years sober is fired from his job; he buys a bottle of vodka at eleven in the morning. A college student does heroin for the first time and realizes that this is how he wants to feel for the rest of his life. A building is demolished, two squatters inside are killed, and their bodies are never found. A woman eats lunch, a woman excuses herself from the table, and she goes to the toilet and vomits to ensure that she stays thin. A young man hangs himself (donít wait for the reason, does it really matter). Our government takes away more and more of our freedoms everyday, so we watch the stock market. If you donít have medical insurance you will die because saving your life is too expensive. Treatment for drug addicts, are you crazy? Throw them in jail, some good old fashioned government sanctioned sodomy will cure them of their blighted worldview. Is there a story here, yes? Is coherent, no. Then why do we still crave the story? The quick fixes, the easy out, the right answer. There is no right answer; maybe is the closest you can ever come.

DAY 30
So you are tired of listening to me now. You want to know what is going on down the block where Larry Kent is, right? How do you know that I did not just invent him in order to make a point? How do you know that I myself am not an invention? How far removed are you from the writer? Hell, who is the narrator? And I bet all this time you have been sitting there reading this trying to extract something about the psyche of the true author of this work from these pages. Howís that working out for you? Can you see him yet? I am Pith Mallard, forget about him. I am Pith Mallard and this is my time and these are my thoughts. Donít let yourself get sucked into thinking like a critic. You have no power to judge the quality of my thoughts until you create something with your own. Then we will be peers, we will both be artists not because we are good or bad but because we are...well **** it maybe where not peers or artists but we all have to do something right? Do you feel like your being ****ed with? Are you saying to yourself, ĎHey, Pith Mallard would not say these things its not in his characterí. Well I am saying these things. What are they amounting too? Do I have an ultimate goal in mind for this work or am I simply writing what comes to mind? Do you know? Five more people are dead by their own hand. What did they have to say? What art was lost with them? The waves crashing and dragging back the sand and the pearls.

10-24-05, 11:03 PM
Just want you to know that I treated myself to a glass of wine and enjoyed your story.
Man, can you write.

10-27-05, 10:59 AM
Tried PMing you but it didnt work. Anyway I just wanted to say thanks for reading my work. If you would like the novel in full let me know and Ill email it to you. You would be the first person to read the work in its entirity. I would love some feedback and I value your opinion so just say the word.

10-27-05, 12:02 PM
please do...sending my request :)