A bit from earlier this year...

I always want to say something so profound and striking; I always want to let the pent up frustration, anxiety, and stress come pouring out in the most powerful and insightful of words, sentences, paragraphs…

Would another “Manifesto,” written by a cynical, romantic, depressed, asshole be any use to anyone, ever? Do we really need another self-serving, self-righteous, dialectically monotonous tome, cluttering up zine shelf-space at a few info-shops across America; being read by three fucking people? What intense and important statement do you even have to make? The high cost of living art, when you can’t even seem to roll out of bed most days – good fucking luck, asshole.

Sit here, fucking sit here – don’t you goddamn move – sit here and think of what you would say to the whole world if they were listening, as a captive audience, right now? The long answer is that it would take way to long to say most of the shit, to get into it and dig around for a minute. Well, fuck, say you have a book that WILL get published and everyone on the whole earth will read it; what then?

Would it go something like this?

Dear Assholes,

Today it occurred to me that I don’t know what I think about the human race; about the dying planet; about why I do the things I do; or how I feel about my own life. This having been said, who the fuck do I think I am to tell anyone what to do? No one. In total, unrefined, and without additives: I am no one. Some fucking guy who just reads a lot. I see a lot of shit that makes me sad, more that makes me mad, and probably more that even that which only causes me to laugh in disbelief. I’ll take the role of the cosmic schmuck, and should way more than I do, but even with that – ya’ll are fucked.

Maybe a retreat into fiction is the answer, no direct, self-righteous confrontation there. No smug absoluteness. In fiction, I could be writing about all the great sex I want to have instead of feeling bad for all the mediocre sex I’m not having right now. In fiction, the highs are much higher and important than they are as another numb, useless part in the living, breathing script of my life. In fiction, I can do all the things I’m too afraid, too selfish, or totally unequipped to do. God, reality is fucking harsh.