While I’m on the subject of the end of all things, not long ago somebody asked me if I was afraid to die. It was a weird out of the blue question, I thought, a little morbid, but I said no, not at all. Which was true, I’m not afraid of dying. I don’t sit around dwelling on it or pestering people in bars with questions on their own mortality. Besides, I said, there’ll be one helluva wake. But you won’t be there, she said. Well, my cold corpse will be, if we go traditional. That’s sick, she said. No, I said, that’s dead. Uh, okay, she said. One fuck of a wake, I added. Screaming jazz and everyone drunk and stoned and raising hell. She looked a tad frightened, little her next to this giant dude talking about his post-mortem bash. I ordered another whiskey and offered her one, but it was obvious I was the last person she wanted to drink with. See ya at the party, I said.
The air is deathly still atop our hill here in Silver Lake, till the hint of a breeze brings the smell and sting of a bad burn miles away. That’s not a little fire, that smell, that’s whole neighborhoods, and jillions of molecules from burned houses fill the air in brownian motion, we inhale them, exhale them, they stick to our skin till we wash them off in the shower and they flow toward the ocean and infinity.
I was lectured by a new resident of Frogtown that they do not call it Frogtown. It’s called Elysian Valley, he said. They had just moved there from San Francisco. So you moved from Frisco to Frogtown, I said. That ended that conversation, but alliteration is like crack to a writer.
So for I don’t know how many hours all these very creative types—some musicians, a writer, a couple artists, maybe some others—had settled in around a beat up table in an assortment of abandoned chairs at the very bottom of the Cafe NELA patio. Either gravity or our careers had left us there because you couldn’t get any lower than that table. We sat there drinking and smoking and laughing way too loud, the jokes were terrible and the insults mean and the stories were always old and sometimes true. Far nicer people than us gave us a wide circle, like plump fishes warily eyeing a circle of sharks. Sometimes one would foolishly come too close and be devoured, chomp, in a swirl of cackles and humiliation. It was all rather merciless and totally enjoyable and we sat there for hours laughing and basking in our asshole exceptionalism. We knew we were it. We knew it did not get any lower than us. More dumb jokes, each more offensive than the last, some bass players having no pride at all. Eventually three grown men were doing Jackie Mason impressions at the same time, though not quite in harmony. I’d never heard three bad Jackie Mason impressions at the same time. Probably never will again. Pipes went round. Holy vodka in a water bottle, Batman. Even friends were abandoning us by now. The Jackie Mason was getting weird, the sculptress was getting dangerously out there. We were starting to peak on our own delicious high. This is what I’m gonna miss, my painter buddy said, this. You can see music anywhere, he said, but this…. He gestured it in water colors, I saw it in words. This, he said, this is the life.
I’m seriously considering dumping most of the stuff I’ve written, just deleting nearly all of it. There’s just so much of it and it’s a pain in the ass and I’m not the least bit interested in being an archivist. I suppose I’d hang onto s few things but the rest can be blown to electrons as far as I’m concerned. I always wondered what is is that drives painters or writers to throw their canvases and manuscripts in a heap and set them alight. It’s just that you get sick of them being around. They get in the way of creativity. You find yourself worrying too much about this old shit. And no fire is required for this sort of bonnier, just hit delete and you’re free.
Anyway, I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’m very tired of all this clutter. It serves no purpose except to remind me I write too much. And I’ll still keep writing, which is what it’s all about, writing. The verb writing, not the noun writing. Writing as a verb is alive, writing as a noun is not alive at all, but finished, completed, dead.
Anyway I suppose this sounds like a stupid idea.
A couple days ago I was trying to think up a title for a piece I’d written. It had been a fairly difficult write, it was about information, technology, perception, cognition, and evolution and making it breezily readable in a few hundred words took some work. Science writing does. Anyway, I was 99% finished and maybe a minute away from hitting the publish button to post it on the blog when the screen went blank and when it came back a few seconds later the post was gone. Vanished. There was no evidence that it had ever existed, like it had never been.
I’m sure I let out a fuck or two, and I looked in a few other folders to see if it had magically materialized somewhere else, but no. It was gone. Oh well, I said, and went on to something else. Spilled milk and all that. Maybe I’d rewrite it. Maybe not. It’s just writing.
A friend’s husband, a local editor of note, recently sent out a stern warning to all us writers to back up our stuff. Someone he knew lost everything he’d ever written when something went amiss somehow, and now it was like the poor bastard had never written anything at all.
I thought of that when my essay—which was probably one of the deepest things I’d written in a long, long time—was scattered back into the electrons from which it came. And I realized, to my surprise, that it wouldn’t bother me much if all my blogs were vaporized and a million beautifully laid out words were blasted to sub-atomic particles. I don’t really read the stuff. I don’t think about the stuff. It doesn’t mean that much to me. Hell, I’d just write more stuff anyway. It just gushes out. All I have to do is start typing. It’s epileptic hypergraphia. It didn’t used to be, not all of it, but since 2006 it’s pretty much all symptomatic. A long piece like this means there’s some seizure activity loose in my frontal lobe. The writing just happens. It’s so automatic it loses its significance. It’s just what I do, or am programmed to do. Sort of like being an Android. The real me does other stuff. The Android me writes about it.
So I don’t really have any emotional attachment to all the stuff I’ve written. It’s not like all the books that surround me here. I love my personal library. But I have no real connection to my six blogs full of my own writing. I carefully maintain them, for sure. But there’s nothing visceral in my commitment. They’re just words. My words, sure, but still just words.
It wasn’t till that essay was vaporized a couple days ago that it occurred to me that maybe this attitude isn’t a good thing. I mean for me it’s fine, natural even, but maybe some of this stuff stands on its own, apart from me. That sounds absurd, to me anyway, but I don’t know how my readers would see this. I have no idea. Yet I can’t guarantee any of my stuff will survive. I mean if I ever tire of these blogs all my stuff might vanish for good. Just poof and gone.
Hey, thousands of Russian women want to marry me again!
I thought they’d given up on me a decade ago for playing hard to get. Luckily for my middle aged ego at the time they were quickly replaced by thousands of Filipinas who wanted to marry me. So many lovelies, too. But you know how fickle Pinays are and they dumped me, every last one of them. I was crushed. But then thousands of Chinese girls took pity and wanted to marry me, and lot of them proved their willingness by being naked. Apparently it’s an old Chinese tradition. But I was busy, and writing too much, and already married, so they dumped me too, though the naked ones waited longer. Alas I never noticed them tucked away in my spam folder. Finally even the naked ones left me in the lurch. A girl can only wait so long. For years thereafter I lived a forlorn online existence, getting ads for walk in bathtubs, baldness remedies, testosterone supplements and funeral plots. Sad.
Then suddenly thousands of Russian women want to marry me again. They email every day, too. That how I know it’s the real thing this time. True luv.
To: Brick W.
From: ❤️️ Russian Woman
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