I’m supposed to be writing newspaper articles right now.
Carmel’s warning is ringing in my head though: don’t stop writing for yourself, Sean. Even if you lose your Europe notebook and start writing articles you hate, don’t stop. Even if you realize only a month before your first year of college ends why you started going in the first place, and this is and isn’t what you think you should be doing right now, don’t stop. It’s in you, just like all that misdirected passion and self-destruction. It’s real, and that’s why you talk about it. Or, it was something undefinable, and then you started ruminating, then spouting off. It only turned into a mess from there. But this thing you needed to explore is here now, in front of you, and what are you going to do about it? The door doesn’t stay open like that forever. It’s more funny when you don’t have to make them into metaphors. When your life is made up of cliches and recycled Don Quixote monologues, the dawn doesn’t last as long. You worry about broken arms and getting old, and things you would never have considered last time you stood at the end of this pier, with those old fishing boats in permanent winter there in the sea. fixtures of our oily past, reminders to kick ourselves a few bucks to clean up this grimy city for the first time in forty years. what do you think attracts the supertramps and college kids, thinking this is still the last frontier? they couldn’t be more wrong. but they’ll keep arriving, because pakistan closed its borders and nepal’s suddenly too far away. california’s not what she was before and missouri’s all a sham since old Sam moved back east.
That east wasn’t so bad, Manhattan? There was a voice there and you found it, a style, and you mastered it. Not this you, though, the one you left there just like you did Croatia. Go back to him, if you’re needing closure: that was peace and uniformity. the guitarist playing in his jestergarb and bells a ringin, next to the starving maniacs that always had it coming. The skinny one, with the cockroach in his eye, his tongue is in a raven’s beak, flying between buildings like it never would in life. That’s why he went to stealing, and killing when he had to. A token here, an apple there. Soon they’re gonna kill ya, he said to me proudly, as if he’d only just figured it out. Just keep playing the sultans of swing while that woman’s barely breathing. Ignore it all and give yourself a haircut: rid the world of your tires and worry, and see what fortune that will bring you.
Hunter finished the whole second half of Hell’s Angels in four days. He loaded up on whiskey and pills, locked himself up in a hotel room outside San Francisco, and banged out the first two hundred pages of his character.
Everything’s got a moral, said the Duchess, if only you can find it. Where did Carroll say that? Who was the Duchess? Jabberwocky, remember that? That was poetry in keen eye.
You can turn the page on that, you know. You’re more than welcome to. It was bad back then, when you’d gotten as far away as you possibly could, you let it haunt you. You never learned the lesson that says distance alone changes anything. Still today, it’s the lifeforce. Your reason for being.
Not everyone’s a scoundrel. Just the people who won’t let the truth out.
That was brilliant, that spring morning blizzard. Sometimes a truckstop is the best place to eat breakfast.
Don’t lose it, just keep going. Keep driving your car, keep protesting war, keep texting and biting your fingernails, waiting for the next in line to fail. Bear Flag. Have you seen this wine? The polar bear is screaming lawyerwritten atrocities. The penal code for the human race, our favorite nerd to pick on. Keep the candle lit, my friend, this vigil’s not quite over yet. We’ve still got the cake to cut, and all those gifts besides. Let’s just have a dance here, to loosen up the vibes.
Right, get those movies straight, and write about them in the best philosophical jargon you’ve got, like the cinemas at three a.m. in the odyssey parking lot. above that abacoa masquerade, up on the roof she’s crying. for the fireworks and molten ash, and seconds in the basement. screw off the cap and steal the speakers while they’re peaking. notice how much you’ve lost in sound, and pitch it to the millions.
I’m going to dot dot dot and star star star until the magic rainbow falls down in tears. It’s a source of transportation, and we’re always trying to move, mostly like those humans do. quite simply that was bliss, and so I thank you without regret.
moving on, the cd changer switches disks and I’m listening to static in springtime. a computer’s singing lullabies to your children, and I’m wondering what you’re doing about that little problem off the coast of Ecuador. Just let it go. Have those one million years from the year you were born, the galapagos will be there still, and the turtles are going extinct. Let it be. Sing Beatles songs in a subaru a capella, how many did I know? One or two, but in that land how can you know what sound is? I’m sorry I pretended, Iceland, but I was on Mars and in love again with words, all those clear skies couldn’t save me. Grimsey is a memory I’ll keep up there forever. The camera didn’t catch it, those seagulls and the waves below, both playing in the wind and rain, like panic for our children? That was the earth in ancient imperfection, and I’m hesitant to look up now. Did you think those waterfalls would save you? They must have, with their sadness and rejection. Post the summer up on the wall, shrine it off to visitors: this is the story, and it is everything to me. now it’s yours.
go back and start again, and tell me what you’re getting at. you demand your truth, then hide behind similes and smiles, head shaking off nevermind. no wonder you’re not interested in complying.
what is this madness? my feet are cold and the day is young, I’m needing sleep more than medicine and I’m still not sure about her reticence, did I spell that right, is it what I meant, likely not, listing off priorities. Call it what it is when you’re standing there on the edge of the earth, tempted to find out if it’s raining glaciers in Hades for the next six months. we’ll see about that later, because I’m still not finished here. there are places to meet and people to eat, or it goes something like that, right? Lose the imbalance with yourself. And keep going.