My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, tomorrow I’m leavin’ on a jet-plane, I don’t know when I’ll be back again… No, I’ll be back Tuesday. I’m going to L.A. for the technical Emmys. They film the whole affair, then they show clips of the winners during the big Emmys. The people from Showtime and This American Life are being spectacular and sending me to join in on the festivities. I’ve mentioned it, but the show’s up for five awards, four for an episode they did about me.

I feel weird about it. I loved the experience and I want them to win because they really did some amazing work, but personally I don’t feel like I deserve anything. Back 2007 I simply managed to choke on some pineapple juice and almost die. I’ve never done or ever do anything great, and maybe I never will. At least, none of it is great to me. I’ve consistently managed to fuck up everything that is important to me.

So, I was able to clearly write about almost dying and everything that happened from losing my voice to my girlfriend. I’m really great at writing about bad things that I experience. It could be the only thing that I do well. I don’t think I personally deserve anything for it. Still, I want the show to win because it did honestly capture the small portion of my life that I wasn’t screwing everything up.

Wake me up when September ends…

So, I’ve been really down for a good chunk of time, and it’s very easy to get lost in all that darkness. It happens though, you either deal with it in your way or you don’t. I’ve been doing a lot thinking about life and what I want out of it. I keep hearing, “life is in God’s hands,” and “everything happens for a reason,” and “you just have to leave things to fate,” and “if something is meant to be, it will be.” I thought a lot about those things, and I realized something really important. I don’t buy any of it.

God’s not going to help or hurt me, God’s just watching. God’s not going to make my life work, that is up to me. People make choices and our choices have consequences that create other choices and outcomes. Fate, God, whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t rule us. Leaving everything to someone or something else is just a form of inaction. When a person gives up their will to make choices, they’re just allowing other people’s choices to shape their life. A person’s own will is so powerful. Strong-willed people change the world. Choices and actions shape my life, not God or fate. I’m not leaving my life to anyone or anything, it’s all up to my choices and strength of will. Fuck it, I might fail at everything I want, but it won’t be because God or fate made it so. If my will is stronger than those that oppose me, I’ll be fine. I don’t think we should leave anything to God, because I think God leaves everything to us.

Sometimes I feel like Kurt Cobain, minus the talent, the money, the sexy hair, the cool way he smoked cigarettes, and the awesome sweaters.

I’m not big on telethons, but Stand Up 2 Cancer is a good cause and I dug watching James Taylor and Sheryl Crow singing in HD, so donate something.

Today in the Boston Globe is another excellent article by Sara. She covered the funeral of legendary pro wrestler, Killer Kowalski.

Also, and I totally missed posting it, but she did a great article on a local Yo-Yo Man.

So, I wrote a very short piece of fiction. The idea just kind of came to me all at once driving to the movies. In the van I can’t talk to anyone, or use a computer, but I’m not nervous either. My assistant checks in on me regularly enough to where I can really think without distraction. I still wander into worry, but not about my imminent demise. I try to think about writing. I actually do most of my writing in my head, then it’s just a matter of physically typing things. So, I got the idea for Cupid and decided it was worth typing.

It’s the first piece of fiction I’ve written in two years and it’s the first that I don’t find embarrassing. I’m not yet a solid “story-teller,” I’m weak on visual description, but I’m not afraid to say that I’m really comfortable with my voice and use of craft. I may be a weak “story-teller,” but I have definite skill as a “writer.” I’ve lived a lot in the last few years and I think it shows in my writing. The story-telling will improve if I keep going.

I’m at a very odd time in my life, there’s fear, uncertainty, regret, desire, hope. It’s all potential fuel for amazing writing if it doesn’t break me first. I don’t particularly worry about any kind of massive and permanent psychological breakdown, but one never knows about the rest.

She’s that girl, a man’s it girl. She knocked him out before he hit the ground, had him at Goddamn fucking “hi there.” One look and he knew he’d have to see her again. Just that first smile and he was gone, crossed the Rubicon. 

He can talk to her for hours on end, never bored, never wanting to wander. He finds her infinitely brilliant. Her eyes are dark, mysterious, they silently speak of sex. 

Sex with her, his it girl, is better than any fix, the only fix worth chasing. In bed she’s all heat and sweat, her dark brown hair in his face, taking him in until he’s completely lost inside. It’s beautiful and dirty, utterly sick and completely sane. They hold nothing back, both completely laid bare. He wants her with him always, so much it scares him. He loves her beyond reason. 

I listen as he tells me on and on in this shithole bar, cliche as any other. It’s the kind of place where your shoes stick to the scuffed wood-floor. It’s dark, dark enough for drunks to take each other home and regret it later. Liquor and red neon, a place for the damned to pass the time and shoot pool.

He’s in his late twenties, younger than me by far. I’ve been talking to him for the better part of an hour, but I’d been watching him much longer. He’s been alone, smoking and drinking and smoking. He’s exactly why I’m here. I think we can help one another.

“So,” I say, “you think she’s it for you?” sipping my scotch. He’s chain-smoking, the bar covered in ashes and ashtrays. An empty glass of long-dead bourbon at his elbow. 

“Yeah, definitely, she’s everything I want. I’m just scared, you know?” I do know, but I ask why. “What if she decides I’m not what she wants, or she finds better?” 

I knew, these poor suckers are all the same. Scared, lost in things they can’t handle. I polish off my drink, the fucker burns going down. 

“You’ve found what you’ve wanted and you’re afraid of losing it before you’ve lost it?”

He says, “I didn’t say it made sense, but fucking, Goddamn it, yes. It’s the worst feeling on this miserable fucking planet. Sometimes, when she’s away, I honest to Christ can’t sleep. It’s ridiculous.”

I look the pale faced kid square in his blue-eyes, “What if I said you could have her, no worries. She’d be all yours, my friend.” He obviously thinks I’m drunk. 

He says, “Heh, right. You sell self-help books, or some stupid shit like that?” 

“No, I don’t sell self-help books, or some stupid shit like that,” I say flatly. I tell him, “I don’t sell anything, but I do ask for something. It’s really just a small thing.” I order another scotch, neat. My client’s working on a fifth ashtray. 

“Sorry, I can’t donate to your fuckin’ church or whatever either. Besides, I don’t think Jesus is into match-making.” 

I explain, “This has nothing to do with any church, or Jesus. I don’t want any money. All I want is your soul promised to me.” He laughs, cigarette-smoke flowing from his nose, 

“My soul? Don’t I need that?” 

I say, “If you have to ask, what do you think?” The guy looks puzzled, 

“What about when I die, Heaven or whatever, won’t I need it then?” 

“Okay, first off, you don’t know what happens when you die. You have no fucking idea. And even if there is, as you say, Heaven or whatever, how do you know you’ll need anything when you get there? You’re talking in what ifs and maybes, I’m offering you a guarantee, right now.” I tell him this and down my drink. 

“So, you get my soul and she’s all mine?” 

“Yes,” I say. 

“Really? You’re serious?” he asks me. 

He really wants to believe me, after so many years I can read people. He’s tired, face drawn. It girls are exhausting for guys like him. “I’m absolutely serious. You allow me your soul and she’s yours until you drop dead.” 

He grins, “I could deal with that. Okay, then, what do I do? Sign my name in blood?  What?” 

I lean in on the bar, “If you’re certain, just tell me your soul is mine and it’s done.” 

Skepticism flashes across his face, but he’s sold. He likes the idea. Christ, he loves it. I know these things. 

“You’re probably crazy, but fine, fuck it. You can have my soul.” the kid says to me.

I smile, shake his hand. “Now, put out that cigarette, walk out that door. She’s waiting.” He’s gets up, gone without a word, cigarette still glowing faintly in the cheap ashtray. Another satisfied client.

I hear tires screech, sirens just a few minutes later. Red and blue lights dance across the bar. None of it’s for him, my pale faced, blue-eyed client.  He’ll go home to his it girl, they’ll have time. He’ll wake up next to her tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He won’t be afraid of anything. Trust me, I know. 

I wonder if he’ll need what he gave me. 

Nevermind, I saved the comments, which makes me less astonishingly stupid!

I accidentally deleted the last 20 comments which makes me astonishingly stupid.