I read somewhere that,
while strolling through the desert one morning, Dorothy came upon an old Navajo man painting pictures in the sand and she asked,
what's the job of the artist? The Navajo answers,
an artist provides what life does not.
We of the literary world like to feel we are not here to wrangle and claw but to create.
Writers on Twitter will tell you they write because they have to— they're addicts you know.
Whatever you do, don’t tell me about insanity, I wrote a short story about a man who had a toilet seat fetish and painted a smiley face on the lid.
Sometimes he’d spend hours in the loo whispering sweet nothings to the thunderbox. One day, his wife called 911 because she was locked out of the WC. Desperate, she shits in a pot, squatting, in the kitchen, before the first responders got there.
Eventually, the poor guy, let’s call him Wet Willy, went to see a hypnotherapist hoping it would help him forget his loo obsession, but, it was no help— as soon as the session was over, Wet Willy ran home to be with his toilet seat.
Then ole Willy stopped going to work because he couldn't handle being separated from his lover, the ta ta seat.
Not surprisingly, his wife Loony, left him, because Wet Willy ignored her and she got tired of running next door to pooh, it was embarrassing.
One day, a meter reader noticed a foul odor coming from Willy boy's house and called the fire department, who knocked down the front door and ran upstairs, finding poor Willy dead with his head in the toilet bowl.
No one knows for sure why or how Wet Willy drowned in his toilet bowl, but some people think he was partaking in a love ritual with his honey-lover-chamber-pot.
I hope this story is proof if you need proof that I’m bats. Not certifiably— but, bats to share this dumb story with you.
I’m going to lock myself in the garage with a fifth of Jack Daniels and bottle of Tramadol, roll the top of my Cadillac down, blow the speakers, sit in the bitch seat, and type on my Smith Corona like a trucker gone on bennies. Because I have an itch to talk things out, line by line, not for you, but for myself— GARBAGE TALK BABY.
I have always been pretty much outside it all. My writing is transgressive— outside the parameters of orthodox fiction.
Nothing seems real to me— insects, women, cornfields, sun or moon, sex, candy.
Even death is surreal to me. One time I visited the charity ward of Coney Island Hospital with a midget friend who was a circus clown. The ward was horrifying, a place for the soon-to-be-dead to crawl around in. A purgatory on earth where the dying lay in the stink of their sheets for days waiting for a nurse to appear.
Even my friend the midget clown, going through routine after routine— with sweat beading through his pancake makeup, didn’t get any laughs— dying is serious business, outside the perimeter of day-to-day living, it's a time when normal people are railroaded outside.
Only the thousands on Twitter who read my stories at busted-on-empty know I’m a writer. But, I keep hoping AOC or Biden will phone and ask me to email them a campaign speech or something. I’ve been mulling over a eulogy for Biden’s funeral, something like—
Scranton Joe was born in a shoebox on top of a Pennsylvania landfill— by the time he made it to the Whitehouse he had more shoes than Elton John, all of them black.
America’s son did things in a big way— his mistakes were epic and his successes were few.
His lovely wife Jill, who’s sitting in the front row tonight, is a doctor of something, but, no one knows what.
Joe died while in office like Lincoln, Kennedy, and Roosevelt, a member of an exclusive club— let us pray for Scranton Joe.
I haven’t been feeling good (SHTICK WARNING SOUNDING). I need an operation for one of my maladies but can’t afford to go to the hospital. I never get genteel clean diseases you can chat about over a cup of tea, like a heart attack, stroke, or amnesia, but instead, for me, it's hemorrhoids, madness, boils, ingrown toenails, and rotten teeth.
Life is avoidance of pain until death.
Life is love between two people that only go one way— one is always the master and the other the slave.
Death is the master of life.
There are days, rare days, when I lay in bed in a fit of depression, afraid to get out of bed, knowing something dreadful is going to happen, something waiting around the bend.
Christmas Day, today— is one of those days. I’m spending the day in bed drinking Jack from the bottle and popping Tramadol. I’m afraid to go out on the streets because people on the streets are whacky, Christmas is something they have to do, if they had a lick of sense they’d pass it up.
The residues of Indian Summer have evaporated and we are stuck fast enduring Christmas and it smacks of something with razor-sharp teeth.
There is no way out of our present impasse, not just Christmas Day, but every day. Anyone whose eyes are truly open sees the horrors that surround us— it's so fucking lousy that I can't talk about it.
Right now, I’m getting a little loaded, being loaded inspires me. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. And, honestly, I don't think much about right and wrong— allowing my well-lubed prefrontal lobe to do the job.
I want to bring this story— my confessional in first-person style experiment to an end, so I'll say good night to my esteemed readers.
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