Letter to Brostein (Vol 9. number 12)
5/9/09
Brostein,
Again I wonder at all the things we do and the reality of the end result which is always pointless. I look forward to seeing you and your hot wife soon. In case you didn’t know, Santa Barbara is burning to the ground, so perhaps you can find a fixer upper pretty cheap.
I appreciate your kind words about my current work but at times it seems like only a struggle to continue on. Is it a quest for immortality, a way to get out from under dead end jobs, a way to hide from reality or only a sickness that the voices inside my head, remind? Either way, I long for days of random nothing. The days where we would wander about, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, finding amusing games to while away the hours and lose ourselves outside the meaningless crap the world at large desperately wants us to ingest and assimilate; they are my fondest memories.
But today you have your path, and I will refrain form the word “prophecy” it seems to place you in a light of great importance and the truth is I know what a buffoon you can be. I suppose my thought of the moment is, “Can a buffoon bring great change?” Of course you can but its fun to say these things out loud because in the end we as in (you and me), understand the emptiness but carry on regardless.
This brings me to my current dreary about writing in general. As you know, I hate to write; so much inner exposure, but I feel compelled and like a good junkie, slam the dope of words into my vein and feel the rush, then the high and sadly, the numb and OD, leaving me prostrate and shaking from withdrawals. The paramedics arrive and witness my fetal convulsions and think to turn off the laptop, take it away and never return it. I scream and wail and beg them to lock me up because the world is too overwhelming. They laugh and tell me to have a good day as they leave in search of something more important. Is there anything more important then words? I suppose there is.
Why not find another addiction, one that doesn’t destroy me? I don’t know my dearest of friends and perhaps this will be my end, slumped over a keyboard, coffee cold and smoke torching my room, sending me to hell in a blaze of glory where the devil herself waits with open arms and perfect breasts for me to suckle through eternity.
Of course, there may not be any hell and the sad truth is, the place I now dwell, earth, is the hell of all hells. I can’t say for sure and maybe it doesn’t matter. My books will float through the hands of desperate minds long after I’m gone and if my words make an impact, so be it. If my books end up on a sad and forlorn shelf at Goodwill, being sold for fifty cents or a garage sale for a quarter, I’m good with that as well.
But the words won’t leave me alone and the road only lends itself as the ultimate dealer, offering great highs for the small price of sanity. Maybe one day, when all are gone and we find ourselves alone, much like the old days, we can drive up to Sun Valley and have a Carl Night with the master of the electric blender drink himself. When we get good and ploughed, head over to Papa’s house, now a museum, and sneak in our double barrel friend. Do you think Papa would mind if we mix our grey matter with his in the holy chandelier? I suspect not.
The reality of this musing is that even this semi-tragic, pseudo romantic ending is as big a bunch of shit as striving for the New York Times best seller list.
When you get here I hope we have time to hit a few Chinese joints and without fail, that which always brings me great joy. Yass, sit down with a double double w/cheese, onions and extra pickles, a diet coke because I like the taste; to hell with my boyish figure (God bless In and Out Burgers) feed the birds my fries and play our poetry game. Those poems still make me laugh until it hurts.
Bindo
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