The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

January 30, 2001

Joey Kantor
poxxxx
Las Vegas, NV 891xx
(702) xxx-xxxx

Dear Editor,

I am deeply concerned with the president’s use of the word “evil.” I feel it is extremely irresponsible to demonize an entire other country. It eliminates all rational communication and transmits only one message: that the “evildoer” must be wiped out. According to Mr. Bush’s use of the word we will proceed from here on out to wipe out the “Evil Axis” of North Korea, Iraq and Iran. The use of the word “axis” is an obvious reference to World War II and it seems to me to be a way to drum up a real war by having people associate our current situation with a former one. Quit beating around the bush, Mr. Bush. If you are setting World War III into motion then I want to know. I believe George W. Bush owes America a detailed explanation as to what he means when he uses these religious communications, for remember, only God can judge who is truly evil. The rest of us must follow the rule of law. These countries are filled with children who can be hurt. I would appreciate our president being a little more careful with how he uses religion. We must remember that our President is an elected, paid government official. He has no right to use inflammatory and religious language. Stick to your job, Mr. President. Leave the religious speech to the Mullahs of the Taliban.

Joey Kantor M.A. Mythological Studies with an Emphasis in Depth Psychology East Las Vegas

H^ry appears to have been piqued as on author and a theo-

log}^ in adding the dause concerning his own Institution of

A CHiU3TiAN MAN, which had been treated with the same sort

of ridicide. Yet imder the general injunction of suppressing

all EnglU^b books on religious subjects, he formally excepts,

among otb^rB, some not properly belonging to that class, such ‘

as the Cantckbuby Tales, the works of Chaucer and Gower,

CRONiciiSS, aod Stobies of mens lives ^. There is also an

exception added about pkys, and those only are allowed whidh

weice called Mobalities, or perhaps interludes of real character

and action^ ^^ for the cefauking and rqiroaching dL vices and

the setting fortb rf virtue.” Mystekies are totally rejected®.

TbeTesen^ons which £:>llow,^ concerning the use of a cc»rrected

£d)glish Bible, which was permitted, are curious lor their quaint

pai^tialityt aiul they sh^ir the e^ibarrassment of admmistration,

i^ ^ d^&^t business of oonfimng that benefit to a few, fron^

which aU might re^ advantage, but which threatened to be-

Kxm^ a general evil,, without some degrees of restriction. It is

absolutely fi^rbadden to be read cur expounded in the church.

1^ lord, chancellor, the speaker of the house of commcms,

captaines of the parsy justices of the peace, and recorders of

cities, may quote passages to enforce their public harangues,

(f^ has been accustomed. A nobleman or gentleman may read

k, in his hoi^e, orchards^ or garden^ yet quietly, and without

disturbance “of good order.” A merchant also may read it

to himself private^j. But the common people, who had already

abused this liberty to the purpose of division and dissentious,

and under the denomination of womerij artificers, apprentices,

journeymen, and servingmen, are to be punished with one

mcmth’a imprisonment, as often as they are detected in reading

the Bible either privately or openly.

” 3rAV» Ajan, S4, 35. Henr. VIII. Mr. Warton must mean Mathews’s in
Cap. i. Tyndale’^ Bible wa» prinjted at 15S7.-i>HxRMiKT.l
Paris 15S6. [I kno

Writing is more than just putting words on a page in a manner acceptable to the proper people. When we put words on a page, whether it be a letter to a friend or a novel, we are making a choice. In fact, we are making choice after choice after choice. This is perhaps one of the reasons that we find writing so discomfiting. Each new sentence is a blind corner on the road to our very selves. How else does a person get to know who they are accept through their thoughts and then even more palpably, through their understanding of the expression of these thoughts? While words are only one means of expression they are truly the most available for most of us. We all speak and, as they say, if you can speak you can write.

Over the last few weeks I have been reading Shakespeare in the Henry Mills State Park Amphitheatre. I would like to use this column to try to explain to you (and to me for that matter, for the process of writing is also a process of teaching yourself) what I come to learn. These thoughts will not always stay within the lines of what your high school grammar teacher told you. I am a writer and I admit that I write more by feel than I do by any explicit rule. I think that a gerund is a word ending with -ing, but I’m not 100 percent certain. This fact in no way whatsoever has any bearing on whether or not I will write well. Writing is expression first and correctness second.

A child must first understand that to write brings its own rewards. If a child can write and feel satisfaction for having created out of her own store of knowledge, even if it be faulty, that is, words mis-spelled and sentence structure askew, she will have had the basis for continuing to greater achievements in the craft. In other words, it will have felt good enough to write the story or poem that she will desire to continue.

Proper sentence structure and spelling (although many people remain bad spellers their entire life) come joined with the desire to put the words on the page. It is a process like any other craft. Most mechanics, if they put their wrench on the flywheel and turn the engine on and the wrench flies across the room, will not do it again after they watch the wrench fly through their window. The same goes for a child who writes a sentence that falters and yet does not give up, who learns, at any age, he has the right as a writer to change words around and that to “fix” a sentence is, ultimately, still a bit of a subjective judgment since writing is as valid an art form as is painting. If this does not sound true all we need to do is look at what the writing of James Joyce proved. Teachers must realize that there are also artists who use words as well as businessmen.

Enough preaching. The fact of the matter concerning writing is that if you want to have a closer relationship with yourself you could do worse than to pick up a pen or read a book for that matter. This is cliche by now, I know. Everybody on television is telling us to pick up books, but the fact of the matter, I believe, is that if you are watching people on television tell you about picking up a book you cannot be reading, can you? Toni Morrison, perhaps the finest American writer living, said this about television: “I think of it as one of those fake fireplaces, always moving and always looking just the same.”

Think about it. Television, if tuned properly can give you edification, no doubt, but the box by its very nature is not set up to include the viewer as the much slower participation in the language can afford. Just taking a guess, I would say there is much too much plot on television shows and what little character driven action there is is the result of roomfuls of 20 and thirty somethings in Hollywood trying to outdo each other for the next needed situational joke. If we turned off all of the canned laughter on the sitcoms I doubt we would be laughing half as much and the television producers understand this. You see how difficult it is for us to laugh at some of the films that are supposedly categorized under “comedy.” But don’t get me wrong. I know that I probably just sound like a failed television writer. I really do not hate television except for the fact that it keeps people 1) away from more personal interaction with life, which is after all, the final goal (or should be) of literature, both the writing and the reading of, and 2) It has a tendency to numb us to what we are feeling. But perhaps that is why people use it. Television is one of the safer mental sedatives. I, myself, used to use it instead of a sleeping pill.

THE NEXT DAY THERE IS A PROBLEM IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD. THE
PEOPLE OF THE JUNGLE WERE GETTING HUNGRY. JOBS WERE LOW AND SOME
PEOPLE CHOSE TO DO THINGS THAT THEY NEVER WANTED TO DO. THIS IS
THEIR STORY AND THEIR FOES’ ULTIMATE DEFEAT. Ay, what is it you
say? WHAT? ABOUT WHAT? THE WORLD. WHAT WOULD IT BE FOR YOU IF YOU
WEREN’T THERE FOR THE WORLD AND THE WORLD WEREN’T THERE FOR YOU?
THEN I WOULD GO THE OTHER ROUTE. THE OTHER ROUTE? YES, THE OTHER
ROUTE. I WOULD GO THE WAY OF BEAUREGUARDS AND THE TOMLINSINS, WITH
HONOR AND WITH PRIDE. I WOULD GO. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU. YOU WOULD
NOT. Would to. WOULD NOT. WOULD TO. CUT TO: MAN HELD IN THE ARMS OF
MOTHER THERESA. HE IS DYING AND MOTHER THERESA IS TRYING TO HEAR
THE BALLGAME ON HER TRANSISTOR RADIO. CUT TO: INT. THE WORLD’S
WORST PROBLEM. IN THE MORNING THERE IS NOTHING BUSTLE AND
CONFUSION. CINDY MAYWEATHER ENTERS THE NEW DAY. SHE SLIPS ON THE
ICE AND FALLS. A HANDSOME GENTLEMAN HELPS HER UP. THEY LIKE EACH
OTHER. THEY END UP EXCHANGING NUMBERS AND DATING. THEN CINDY
MARRIED AND HAD THREE CHILDREN AND TEN YEARS LATER THEY DIVORCED.
SHE REALLY LIKED HIM, SHE DID, BUT SOMETHING HAPPENED AND EVEN
THOUGH HE PICKED HER UP OFF THE ICE THE POWER OF THE…THE WHAT?
WHAT POWER COULD BE SO GREAT. THE MYSTERY OF THE GREY. CUT TO
Today. Finally. They speak of it as though it isn’t here. Today.
BUT THEN THERE WAS THE EDDYING OR WAS IT THE FLOW. FINALLY, THE,
NO, I WON’T SAY THAT, THE WONDER, IF SOMETHING, AGAIN, AS IF THERE
COULD AGAIN BE WONDER IF YOU ARE TO HAVE ORDER. IDYLLIC LIFE,
REALLY. THEN CAME THE TREES AND THE BIRDS AND THE WINDS AND THE
SOUNDS OF SOUNDING NIGHT. AGAIN CAME THE DAY. IF THE WORLD TELLS
YOU NO (WROTE KNOW) THEN YOU WILL KNOW. IF THE WORLD TELLS YOU YES.
THEN YOU KNOW. THEN YES, YOU WILL KNOW. AND THEN WHAT. SAYETH THE
MAN. YOU FORGOT YOUR… SAY IT… QUESTION MARK. IT WAS IN THERE.
OH. OKAY. WHAT NOW? THERE IT IS. WHAT? OH, THE QUESTION MARK MINE?
YES, YOURS. WELL GOODDAY. WAIT. WHAT ABOUT MY QUESTION MARK? DID HE
SAY SOMETHING ABOUT MY QUESTION MARK? WHA…WHA…WHADIHESAY? SO IT
GOES AND THEN CUT TO. AND THEN CUT TO AGAIN. AND REMEMBER WHY YOU
WERE HERE. To work hard and make lots of money as a writer, right?
WRONG. YOU ARE TO LOVE THE WORLD WITH ALL THINE HEART AND MINE…D.
OOOOOH. HELLO? YES. WOULD YOU PLEASE CALL ME AT THE OFFICE? F
COURSE. THANK YOU. WHO WAS THAT? God. (laugh track) commercial WHAT
DO YOU THINK? I DON’T KNOW. WELL IT’S BETTERN’NOTHING True. WELL,
TOODOOLOO. GOODBYE! BYEBYE! LATE! WORD! YO! CIAO! THE NEXT DAY AT
THE SPACE DOCKING STATION (SEE IT WASN’T POST MODERN, IT WAS PAST
MODERN, WAY PAST…THAT’S RIGHT…SCI FI! RIDLEY Yes. CORNSHUCKER
We ain’t got a moment to lose RIDLEY Perhaps. CORNSHUCKER Perhaps
in the end, captain, there’s good to come of this all. The
universes won’t collide and maybe some of us, some of us, maybe not
us now, but maybe some of us, is gonna see that there is gonna be a
light on at the end of the tunnel and good things is possible.
RIDLEY Yes. I suppose so. CORNSHUCKER Surely.

The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite’z

They Were Found Righteous
a breakfast surreal by Albert Jones

Chapter 1

The Unintelligible Wrath of God

Usually the blank space, the vacuous middle, the unholy whole of what I am is like a secret passageway to a new place. Horses cavort then die then disappear, but then re-appear running thigh long and whispery in their cloudy passage. What hard place do their hooves scratch? None, for the horse is in dream, a lone representation of a thought not reached by me nor anybody else. It drifts away, does not run, for it cannot run. It can only drift, disperse. This is the mode of normalcy for me. For you? Maybe for you too. If a horse why not a llama? A lemur? A disc? An obelisk? Why not a centipede or just the legs of a centipede? This is how much the eyeball world knows when belief in a something further inside is, not forgotten, but accepted as sad, decrepit and scary. The inner world teems and it is better that these horse half-thoughts do not arise again. Trilobites. Why not trilobites? An image, any image, where you can dig in like a fat man at a crab feast for something new, something about you? A crocodile? A soft day to replace a sudden feeling imageless that you must face. Why? Why?

Job was told there was something bad that he must have done to have brought upon him such wrath from God. Job sat there and watched everything fall apart. What must he have done? He could not think of what it could have been. Nothing. He had done nothing wrong. He never left this sentiment because he couldn’t see anything but the truth. This fact is what made him a noble man in God’s eyes. He did not make himself believe something that wasn’t true so that he could gain favor with his oppressor. He couldn’t. His nature was simple. This nature is what got him into trouble in the first place. How could he have changed? The Devil made a sorry bet. Watery worlds. Deep far down worlds like in an ocean, cold, salty with beasts inside. All symbolic. All symbolic for you, but not you, not anymore, not since the pain came along and made all such visages fearful. A trilobite. Or a crab like the zodiac sign. Each could make you something more than you are, but you lose it in the thinking and the analytic isn’t so good anymore and why would you want to go there anyway, this world that possesses you and feeds you tiny morsels of meaninglessness, no context, just tiny morsels of meaninglessness. Dodgers at 4 o’clock. You read it in the paper. You’ve got to go to work now.

I’m a scuttly now, a bog, bugged, scuttly upon the floor. Found out about my outer limbs and feels the crackle of the box. No way to get a message through my back. That’s where the light comes in. Angels. You slowly lift your eyes and you see the dawn or is a wasteland come to haunt you? A past? There must be a past or a whole bunch of built up futures that never materialized, all in all, though, you can bet that it will look like a city on a hill, but you won’t bet on it, because, although white, it is crumbling, slowly crumbling and the sand is becoming chalky and split and you know that yesterday is today and you cannot catch up. It will not let you catch up. A sloth. A lemur. A sense of well-being barely remembered. At least you have a car.

A downward slope, a slide of sorts at the tip is the leap. The lip of the tip is a leap into sky and from there perhaps down. Who am I to guess. Perhaps up. The eyeball world tells you nothing that’s why we turn, why the eyeball looks away towards something new. The two are unconnected, this thing inside, the tip thing, the lip thing into sky and the eyeball thing, tomorrow, today, the why’s, the where’s, the how’s. You think you’ve found color? Mind you, you have not. This thing that you have found is as wordless as yesterday. You watch for your next thoughts and hope that it will come for words may form upon your lips. Then you will know. But that is the eyeball world, the turned away world where hope is all that you’ve got because there is nothing else. You need a mirror, you know, but also know that the mirror is a mirror and where is the where? The there? Here, you hope, it is here, somewhere, because if not then all you’ve got is today. Not a place to get an eyeball in.

But there are buckets and in these buckets lie piles and piles of cash and that’s where you’re supposed to go. Go to the buckets of cold, hard cash. Cold? No, not cold. Warm and pliable and love-producing, these buckets will bring you warm flesh with heart attached. It will bring you children and home and hearth and hope and expectation and quiet knowledge of life’s realities, but stalwart faith, too, and hope. Did I mention hope? Let the exercise continue upon the Lord. Green and smelly, good and faithful. Cash is the God of the world and the only God the world will let you worship. Choose another God, go ahead I dare you, you will see that the world will not allow it for very long. Christianity? Hell, you’d be in the streets. The eyes will look away. Muslim? Well, I wouldn’t really know, but money seems better than this too. Hinduism. Well, there, everyone is poor. Anyway, green and good and smelly and hard and there and present and heartbeat bringing, life affirming. I worship you. I worship you. I worship you. If I don’t I’ll be kicked out I know.

Out from the out in to the inside and then back out, strung, this path together by course thread marked. Still no sign of land. You don’t want feats. You want truth and love. This is all and tomorrow, when the eyeball is back, you will have to make do. Another day is what it brings, no mirror, yet the day. Tomorrow, but no today. Past loves are gone and you are here and your eyeball is dead, or if not dead, un-seeing enough to seem dead. Unseeing enough to make you want to sleep. You attached to the eyeball by tether and synapse to heart and body where fat is becoming who you are and bags are spilling under your eyes because You Can’t See Yourself.

Oh, well. Money is there (although it’s not). Money is there and you had better believe it. Respect it. Money? Money? Money? Money? What does this mean? It means warm cars and heat. Mountain roads yet safety. Sleeping children and a warm smile and true love beside you. It means family appreciation and your rightful place. It limits doubt, no, kills it. Your smile seems like something meant to be. God was good to you and all because of money, money, money, money, money, money, money.

Slip sided because the memory of sex is gone, you are in four rooms, between four walls rather, where these rooms, or walls rather, wait beside you. At least they are there although they are much like the hoofless horse and then they are gone and you don’t know why you would see them in your Mind’s Eye. For if a hoofless horse can run and a four-walled room (s) can be then the inner space, the gasping space, gurgling space can be filled more, but not with feeling, this you know, not with feeling anymore because when feeling comes then you will know that you are something beyond the other thing. Money will become something again and you will raise your mouth to the skyh to try and capture some with a smile, a moneyrainy smile that catches rainmoney smile and you will be happy because the cragspace of nothing brown where walls and horses non-eyeball placeness beckons you will know. Simply, then, you will know…perhaps.

Well then back to the box. Slow down and take heed because back to the box you go when memory, good stuff, the stuff that is good for you to remember not bad, hints at itself again like a vague whisper a mountain lion stepping soft in snow memory asking for you again by name. and you remember that you remember that you remember that you remember that you remember. Memory of old days return again and you know that if this memory is here that another can be formed but boxes and horses, dead horses, I might add and eyeballs and you and me and us and we and money and this and that and the other thing and the thing beyonjd that that you didn’t want to talk about and thw whirl and the world and the now and the then and the how and the when and hen and the chipmunk and back to you and me and us and we and so it goes and so it goes and so it goes…

Remember when the monkey wrench was thrown into the plan? Remember when the surf carried me away and I didn’t come back for ten years? Remember how I thought that I wasn’t human and therefore couldn’t have relationship because relationship was between two humans and I was not human, but something else? Remember how the sky turned dark because that is what it was said it must do to denote the feeling that was being bandying about, and it stayed dark for two years? Remember when we had sex in the rain? Remember how we thought that this mattered, before the period when I thought I wasn’t real and that maybe I could live in a box and ask questions of a God that didn’t seem to be there and when the day ended, as it always did for you because you were real, then all things would end and a little less light would slip into the picture so that the picture was of rain and steep hills and everywhere you looked you didn’t see. That much you knew by now, that as a not human you did not see and you wanted back (me) membership in the club because not being human is not all that it’s cracked up to be thank you very much.

And then it happened anyway and you saw that you did not see and after years and years of trying to see anyway, that is, become human again anyway, you saw that you did not see, that sight was a something that was no longer allowed to you because of the goddamned way that everything goes down until you don’t want to see, the eyeball is closed to the other world. The eyeball knows better than to see and you guess from then on it. Your days continue, of course, but it is all of the guess. Guess the color of that, the temperature of that, the mood of this, the meaning of that until all dead horses and celestial boxes become solidified in a someplace that is not meant to be deciphered. No more answers for you, he who tried to leave the human race but found that he had no other race in which to go. Pity though the teller of the tales of woe for such persons are unwanted, usurpers and much done before. Sanitize, sanitize, sanitize, sanitize, Hence one of the reasons for “ending it all.” But not.
e
As for the soliloquy. Who asked? Nobody that’s who. That’s why that is that. That which is not the other that that. Word play. Meaningless. But is. It. Then. When all is then. Now. Belly far heaven go wherever cloud be roam. That that. Or vortex, something more to go for, go far for when you don’t even know which thread is here, what world connected. Far into the unknown then while butterfy capillaries and caterpillars green greet you again, notice you are on the periphery and your words are letters first, before thought, and thought, hidden, dances unnoticed, single and solitary, so that you can beep alone where code is duke.

Even the –less can be mapped out like a mountain craggy image up then down and hidden by clouds-even that. Just because all eyes are gone doesn’t mean that there is not seeing. You have the vortex, again, the mountain hole wind trees dirt deer swirling down into the maelstrom. That too can be mapped. Shown. Even though eyes are still closed by all, no seeing yet sight. Whose? Whose?

Those who did rock and the hard block hope and the dyke role is the one with the suit the one with the sack, guns in backs, movie live in. wicked. It’s a wicked where we live in.

B;oblip Industries. Clipping now. Hicking now. Wicked sound, six pack I’m sipping now. It’s cool. It’s cool. It’s cool. Whoo hoo. Whoo. Hoo.
Whoo. Hoo!

Ya’ll 2002 transplant. One! Hzhzhzhz .

They used the beat from garnier’s fruictese and got national radio play…but they’re drinking beer!

Righteous! Dude!

A man is on the internet. The camera records what is going on on the computer. He had been looking at the news of the death of his wife. He goes to a Facebook equivalent. Suddenly he is given a suggestion to add her as a friend. He presses Yes after a moment of thinking about it. Then he says, ah, what am I doing? And pushes away from the computer and cries.

Next day he arrives back in front of the computer. He has been befriended by his wife. He is about to pass it up when he goes back to it and wonders about it. He presses the connection. He sees: HOW ARE YOU?

He is taken aback.

Who is this?

He sits there and waits. Nothing. He closes the computer and leaves. Next day. Night. Lamp on. He opens it. He goes right to it.

Who do you think?

I don’t know. Suddenly he is im’d. It’s me , stupid. It’s Lydeen, sweetheart. It’s me. It really is. You’ve got to believe me.

Who is this? This isn’t funny.

But it’s me. Donny, it’s me. I’m here.

He closes the computer.

He’s at the office. He is making a paper airplane as he glances over at his computer which is dark. He is saddened and troubled as he makes the airplane and looks at the computer. He finishes and flies it at the camera.

He sits in the chair. He opens it up. He turns it on.

This is written:

Dearest Donald,

It is true. I have passed. I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I am in a better place now. I can’t explain it exactly….

He closes the computer, gets up, unplugs it from the wall. Carries it outside with him. Ends up on a bridge. Holds it over the bridge as though he is going to drop it.

Sitting at a bar or a coffee house. Doing economic tables only. No internet.

Back home.. He opens up the computer and starts writing this to his new friend:

Only because I understand that man does not live without depths unfathomable will I allow myself the luxury of entertaining your existence as the truth. Who knows? Weirder things have happened, I’m sure. If not, then this is it and I am privy to it. I am the one chosen to tell the world that there is “an Other side” and I will have to accept that, so, in this giving spirit, I will allow you a chance. Also, because I am desperate and don’t care much anymore anyway. Let’s play.

He closes it.

Sits with a psychiatrist.

So, you talk with your wife?
Yes.
Okay, okay, I just wanted to confirm that with you. Your father in law pushed you into this?
Yes.
So far you are only what I have read on these notes. Bah. So, what’s going on?
My wife has gone ahead and prepared a mansion for us, well, not her, but God, just like the Bible said, but it’s not a mansion, but something she can’t explain very well or I can’t understand because it’s a different dimension of some sort.
What does that mean? A different dimension?
Well, it’s like I was on a platform over here and way over there was someone else was on a platform, but there were a million miles between us and yet we could hear each other’s voices. That voice would get a little wavey after awhile and would get netherworldly, I suppose you could say, but worldly nevertheless and my wife is talking to my like that, from there, from over there in those netherworlds, well, netherworlds to us because we’re alive. We’re netherworlds to Lydeen. That’s my wife. Lydeen.
I see.
No, not really.
I want to and we’re just starting.
True.
What else?
Nothing else. That’s it. No spaceships, nothing else. She just writes me and I write her back.
Oh this isn’t aural? You know, you don’t hear her?
Oh, no, she comes in on Spaceface.

The doctor rolls her eyes.

I saw that.
I know. I know. It didn’t say that on here.
I don’t know your process here. That’s you guys.
I know. I know. Spaceface.
Yup. I know this sounds dumb.
It does.
And obvious. Someone is playing a joke on me, right?
Well…
I know. Logical. Logical. My wife is gone five months now. Someone read the obit, saw my name and said, hey, a big laugh. And if it really was Lydeen why would she do that and make me look crazy, like I can very easily see it does. I’m not blind here.

He stops and takes a drink of water.

I’m not blind. I’m not blind.
No, no. You’re not blind. I know that, Mr. Preston.
No, I’m not blind. I’m not by God.

He opens the computer:

Astralbrite,

There, this is the The now. The there and the here and when we see each other again, enough of the little hole and spaceface and be. I’m sorry: BE! Yes, then this and we and soon and Yes. YES. Soon. Don’t worry. Each has its spacetime. You/Us cosmic memory. Future/Past. Yes.

Dwilly,

Saw the doctor today. Said I should stop seeing you. Thought that anyway, because she saw that I saw the stupidity in it. You are someone making fun of me, that whole thing. I believe you, but weary of days of not being able to see you. At first it was play, but now it is not.

He sends and closes the computer.

Montage of their days together. A true love montage with music.

He sits there at the computer again. Different day. He opens the letter.

Fornay,

Will in time oh go be by again for us. Will go again. This time within and then again for us. You and I wonder again can gain this gain again. You’ll see. Flipping out gleefully and now…release you lamb…go…again…and remember…IheartU. I heart U very much. I do.

Street,

Goodbye then you, turtle, into the mysterioso of grand life. IheartU2.

The man closes the computer and smiles, gets up and leaves.

I said that I hate being a writer. I guess I do, but if I wasn’t I guess I would hate the alternative. Being a writer is such a necessity for someone like me that I have the luxury of saying that I hate being a writer. It’s just that when you need to write the most you feel the least graceful. Every word is a glob spit out on the page for you to add to continually. Gracefulness, the ever present aim of writers, is a result of angst, but angst ain’t graceful. Angst is when life sucks, when it seems that just when you get over one thing another starts and you’re tired. You know that no more little tricks are going to get you through. Everything has failed. All your dirty deeds, your sellouts, your utter failures have produced a loser and now you figure that you have to write past them, exorcise them, make them less real. Well, it works most of the time, but you still don’t feel graceful, blissful, the way that you thought that you would feel all of the time when you decided that you finally wanted to become a writer. You become so self absorbed that nothing you say really matters in the way that you thought what you would say would ultimately matter. Your words are dross, but you keep going because you feel that if you don’t keep going then you will go crazy some way and you don’t want that. And you feel that you are totally discovered, found out, by everybody reading you. They all know that you are just fiddling a tune, whacking off, but you don’t ever tell them that and you hope that they are all stupid, that they believe you, that they believe that you have something to say. But you don’t. You’re just trying to get the damned angst out of your body and you’re using the idea of a reader to give you a reason to attempt it at all. But they all know. Everybody knows when they are being used.