the thing about fiction is...

D
e
construct
i
o
n

Male: My mind is playing tricks on me.
Female: The nights are very long.
Male: No light can save us now.

When the mood strikes, writing is less rewarding than when it is forced. The fiction of inspiration is what makes fiction fictional. Application of meaning does not bestow meaning. Intention of meaning rarely endows meaning. Is there really such thing as fiction then?

Fic or non?
What's the difference?

The story of one man's Gulliverian travels through space and time and light and sound in the endless, desperate, meaningful, cathartic, hopeless, futile, sprawling, epic, heroic, meaningless, ultimately chaotic, relentlessly dark, eventually uplifting, always recurringly Faustian, Freudian, and Jungian, relentlessly Wagnerian, ever-so post-modern, but still quite classical, archetypal, historic (and pre-historic) search for meaning.

Continuity defies de construct ion. Or reinforces it. Use (or non-use) of grammar, syntax, diction, onomatopoeia, meter, metaphor, irony, simile, satire, tragedy, dramatic irony, comedy, rhythm, alliteration, pathetic irony, rhyme, close-rhyme, near-rhyme, punctuation, tense, capitalization, and/or spacing does not impart meaning.

So the question remains: Fiction? Or Not? None of this is true. Or all of this is true. But true or non, this is not fiction nor non. A noun is a person, place, or thing (or idea). This is fiction or non-fiction (or idea). I stand alone. The cheese stands alone. The mouse has been prematurely eaten by the cat, breaking the chain. There's always a bigger fish.

Perspective makes the fish bigger. We are tiny but the world is huge. But the world is tiny, the sun is huge. But the sun is tiny, the solar system is huge. But the solar system is tiny, the galaxy is huge. But the galaxy is tiny, the universe is... finite. Endless turtles standing on the backs of turtles would say that the universe is tiny. So what do we care? Our imaginations are bigger than our surroundings. If we can envision it, then it shall be done. A man will walk on the moon. There is life on other planets. We will learn the laws of space and time, and bend them to our punishing will. Always under control, but demanding control. The only way to get around physics is quantum physics.

Quantum Physics: Where Your Wildest Dreams Can Come True!

The electron cloud. Theory and practice. The act of observation and its effect on the observed space is an under/overestimated force. It's the presence of the eye that's the problem. Even in quantum physics, the question always remains: if a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? The world may never know.

If time is a dimension, then time travel must be possible.

Avoid pastiche. Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't make it okay. Everyone can tell if you're trying too hard. Look for fortunate accidents rather than intentional mistakes. This is not inspiration. Force the fortunate. Inspiration is not an accident. It is a con structure. Standing around, waiting for a train that will never come. But more often than not, waiting for inspiration (as one would wait for Godot [Ah! Pastiche! Such a force is unavoidable!]) forces the forcing. Inspiration never comes until the last second; then, and only then, when we are physically (or psychologically) forced to act. We define this last second rescue as inspiration, when in fact it comes from within ourselves. There is no divine intervention, no omniscient unification of the creative cosmos, no. There is no God. There is only You.





we are all alone





If one was to expose the 'photograph' of one's life, one would be in sharp focus but surrounded by the blurs of those come and gone. The imagery speaks for itself, if it's clear enough.

Constructions and structures:
God
Creativity
Atheism
Art
Pop Art
Non-Art
Intellectualism
The Intellect
Darwinism
Creationism
Classicism
Modernism
Post-Anything
Isms
Grammar
Traffic Jams
Patterns
The World and How It Works
Structuralism

Everyone has an ism. There is a right and wrong (although, really, there is no such thing). I am not anti- much. I believe, both in the Mulder-ian sense and in the theistic sense. It's all a matter of getting out of your comfort zone. Isms are your comfort zone. The decaying of an ism is radioactive. That's why there's a black President.

Stream-of-consciousness does not infer meaning. Being Irish or English or German or South African or Australian or Russian or Atlantean does not convey meaning.

Anything can be everything to somebody. The saying, as it goes: One man's trash... And the rest. You know the rest. A common axiom. Idiom. Turn of phrase. Play on words. None of the above. Fill in the blank. Idiomatic structuralism. Vocabularic inventivism. English is a beautiful thing. Use it wisely and remember its history, lest you be doomed to... You know.

So the thing about fiction is...




This has been a textual experiment by no one you've ever heard of.

What (I Think) I've Learned...

I've been mulling this blog post for about a week and a half but never got around to it for a variety of reasons; the main one being that I've recently lost all confidence in my ability to put together cohesive thoughts on paper (or computer screen, in this case). I'm not sure why this feeling is suddenly affecting me, as I've never been all that worried about the clarity of my writing. I've always just written, trusting that someone would be able to extrapolate what I was trying to get at.

But now that Andrew and Jeff have added their musings to the blog, I guess it's time for me to do the same. I'm usually late to the party anyway.

Anyway, here goes, what I've learned (in no particular order):

I once lived in an avocado. It smelled, was always dirty, the plumbing rarely worked, and a homeless man lived beneath my window; but all and all it was a wonderful experience. A time of hope and love.

I cherish my alone time, but have come to enjoy the company of certain others much more.

John was right.

A coworker of mine constantly complains about how unfair the world is. No shit, dude. We don't have to dwell on this though.

My friends are my family.

This doesn't mean I don't like my actual family. In fact, they are quite cool. It just took me awhile to figure that out.

I like tacos. Much more than I realize, according to everyone else.

My brain is packed with loads of unnecessary information. Seriously, I can have a conversation about practically anything. The drawback is that I know little of what I should actually know.

I write in an attempt to capture the speed of thought.

The mundane is fascinating in the right light.

Don't drink out of Eiffel Tower shaped brandy bottles you find in dumpsters. It's not a good idea. Also, don't hang out in dumpsters.

I am the fasted man alive when I've had too much to drink.

Driving on the freeway alone at night can be wonderful.

I am very comfortable with who I am.

Two of the best things I've ever read are comic books.

I get way too much enjoyment out of reading message boards. It's that whole staring at a car wreck thing, I know someones going to say something awful/retarded

My syntax can be absolutely atrocious, for no other reason than I often growed bored of a sentence before I've finished writing it out.

And don't get me started on my grammar.

If I talk to you it means I like you.

Museums are the best place to go on the first date, especially if neither of you realize it's a date.

I want to grow up to be a decent person who continues to experience love and has days filled with good conversations. If I do that I'll be happy.

***

Notes unrelated to the rest of this post:

Nico doesn't like it when Joel writes about basketball, but I must take this opportunity to note that the Lakers beat the Celtics tonight. Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The winter of my senior year it was so cold in my apartment that I pulled a muscle while shivering in bed one night. It was totally not awesome.

I am back, after a year long vacation. Look forward to future posts written in the voice of a valley girl. We're pretty much the same after all.

P.S. This is Bryan (theoretically)

What I've Learned...

Like the rest of the world, I am slowly being weened off the influence of Print Media, though it's been a great friend so far. It's offered legitimacy and made every Thursday (Wednesday since moving to California) as "Sports Illustrated Day". Even still, it is twittered to shreds, day by day by nonstop onslaughts of information, rumors, and speculation that cloud the mind with data, rendering ink stained hands nearly a relic.  A sterling exception to this rule is Esquire Magazine, specifically Esquire Magazine's "What I've Learned" issue. In this issue--published every December,   people from various fields tell their lessons in unadultered, bullet point format. Over the past three years, these issues have given me more than any book, idea, or poet. Reading the abbreviated wisdom of Muhammad Ali does wonders to a man. There isn't a day that passes where I don't think about Muhammad Ali's lesson of "what you are thinking about, you are becoming". I read this passage the day, sat down and finished the first draft of my novel. It rung through my head as I finished the second draft. I will hear it numerous times as I inch nearer and nearer to completion of my ultimate, be all, end all goal of writing a good novel that represents my soul, before moving on to the next ultimate be all end all goal. 

Joel Walkowski, 22, is a recent college graduate, comedian, and writer from Detroit, Michigan. 

Never pursue a woman unless you can talk to her like you talk to your best friend. Short of that, you'll try too hard and embarrass all parties. If this happens, you can turn it into an essay and friendship but little else. If you find, at a later date, that you're able to talk to her like a great friend: embrace the friendship. 

If you want to write, some nights will easy, some nights will be hard. If you go at each night with this singular purpose, you'll notice that the nights you don't care are when you do your best work. In this regards, everything in life can be traced back to Sports. If you go all out, balls deep with effort, you'll over play and undermine your abilities with extra effort. Let the game come to you and you'll control it all. 

This doesn't apply if you play Linebacker, Defensive Line, or want to direct a feature film.

Also, it's quite hard to admit when you don't have your "A" Game. 

If life gets hard, pretend you're someone else for a little while. The power of pretending to be a Long Island Housewife or Mother of Cactuses has pushed the restart button for me many times. 

Four or Maybe Six Hours a week you will be possessed by a singular purpose, a feeling you'll cling to as your reason for being. There are two ways to take this. You can either feel bad because it doesn't take a stronger hold or work to make it a bigger part of your life. There is only one approach that makes life worth living...

Eat good meals daily, even if they have to be fried multiple times. The smile  is worth the smile. 

Exercise and inspiration make life feel equally good but you can only force one of them. A game of tackle football feels much better than several scotches. 

If someone grants you the gift of their conversation, you owe it to them to give everything in return. 

Armed with a proper frame of reference, all life's lessons can be gleaned from a single NBA Playoff game. 

As far as I know the best feelings in the world are: 1) Being surrounded by a universe formed in friendship 2) Completing a large scale project 3) Seeing your team win a championship 4) Being in love. These are in no particular order, no should they be. 

Money doesn't matter. Spend it. Even if you don't have it. If you're worrying about it they've got you. 

If I can't have a decent conversation with someone they earn my immediate distrust and scorn. I believe the same beliefs are hoisted upon me. That's how it goes. Sometimes you meet, often times you judge, but don't forget that you're getting the same treatment from them. 

If a group of people give the gift of their attention, you better do something damned good with it. Think of the time spent awash in your presence. You'd be hurting the world if you didn't go all out to inform, enlighten, or entertain. I think of this every time I have a group conversation. Some hate me for my aggrandizing ways but those who understand, those who love me, appreciate these efforts. Because of this I know we'll be friends forever. 

Find a good friend. Find another good friend. Keep finding. Try your best to build everyone up and they'll return the favor. Keep it up and before you know it: voila! You're surrounded by a framework of caring, like-minded people. That's what it's all about isn't it. 

Sometimes you need to act crazy to feel sane. If I've ever picked you up at a party, sprinted 100 yards with ya'll over my shoulder before collapsing in an asthmatic heap, this is the reason. 

Back when I was 17, I took on a large goal I had no business achieving. By some cosmic fluke I achieved it. Since then, I haven't felt at home unless I was combatting every element on the way to some place greater. In short, certain moments define you. Don't ignore these moments. They pave the way. 

Good friends hate you sometimes. Great friends love you even though they hate you. If you're a good friend, you'll listen and shape the fuck up. If you're a great friend, you'll let them set your hair on fire because you need the ass kicking. 

Never let a woman ruin a friendship. You can't control a woman but you can control acting like a stubborn douche. 

Several works will strike you as pure genius as young man or woman. You'll grow up, holding these close to your heart, but don't forget to revisit. Going back allows you to understand why you thought they were genius to begin with. 

If you can't get a song out of your head, listen to it over and over again until it becomes part of your soul. 

Chinese History and Hydrologic Cycles are important as you make them. 

Any meal made by Mom is the best one I've ever had. 

You never have enough socks. 

Late night suits me. it ruins my days, casting me as a zombie, but these lonesome hours provide access to a part of me that would otherwise lay dormant and aloof. No wonder I turn to these hours to do what I do. Days are reserved for vice, sports, and hobbies. Nighttime is when serious soul searching comes. 

On a final lesson, perhaps this formal outlet isn't the best way for me to illustrate What I've Learned. Maybe a convo will suffice. 

An excerpt from tonight: 

 me:  what's going? Thanks for watching Goals btw. Do people think I won't be returning?

Bryan:  who said you wont be?

me:  thats just the feeling I'm picking up. everyone's been saying "goodbye"

 Bryan:  everyones saying goodbye to everyone plus youve made it clear you wont be back for like 2 months

 me:  yeah

 Bryan:  a month and a half

 me:  I hope so. it's just been kinda cryptic and surreal

 Bryan:  and early in the semester you were all about letting the wind taking you where it may be and acting like you never wanted to step on los angeles soil again. i mean you told me repeatedly you had no intention of returning. im sure you told other people the same. so while i feel you will be back and dont really doubt that i think that might be fueling most peoples fatalistic goodbyes

 me:  yeah, it's fueled by my own uncertainty

 Bryan:  id think that the people who know you best believe you will be returning probably although you gotta get over the uncertainty its part of the bargain you know the people who know exactly what they want to do to the t are boring so uncertainty is something we deal with

 me:  yeah

 Bryan:  and shouldnt be feared

 me:  I've just caught the bug for fiction writing and figure I'd be selling myself short if I didn't do it until I get good but that's a lame reason for anything

 Bryan:  also one that means youll be writing forever (which i fully endorse)

 me:  I sort of need to. nothing settles me like this shit

 Bryan:  as the day you feel you're good at something you should  stop i mean we can produce good but when we think were good were satisfied and fuck that

 me:  and while this novel ain't great it sure is telling of some future good

 Bryan:  one must hope certainty is sort of a mythical concept

 me:  and future good is the only reason to keep running

 Bryan:  (id say youre on the right path though)

 me:  thanks. I'm trying. More than anyone but intimates realize.

 Bryan:  i think people get fooled by your flippancy

 me:  yeah. for sure

 Bryan:  you make so many things seem inconsequential. stop that shit. you obviously care.

 me:  everyone thinks I'm some dumb ass Crispin Glover weirdo. I know I do. but that's my natural reaction

 Bryan:  i do not think of you as crispin glover

 me:  I've been a self promoter and never want to be one of those film school grandstanders again

 Bryan:  you're more mickey rourke

 me:  that's good I guess

 Bryan:  yeah (p.s. letting people know you care is not self promotion)

 me:  but I'm not gonna waste my efforts to do such a thing. It sort of comes out that I act like an ass sometimes. Though I really enjoyed spinning fancy talk last night

 Bryan:  well. thats not exactly what i mean, what i mean is this: nick, me, your mom we know this means a lot to you because you tell us. you dont just make pronouncements of want to be a great writer. you tell us that you like to write. that its important to you and that sometimes its hard but to others

 me:  I'm really proud that I come off that way. Really proud.

 Bryan:  youre like "that shit.  that don't mean much.  i do it when i'm not sleeping.  and usually drunk!  but i'm good at it and im going to keep doing it because im good at it" now while i dont think you need to open yourself up to everyone, it probably wouldnt hurt to act like this is the most effortless thing ever

 me:  yeah. for sure

 Bryan:  you would not be as good as you are if you didnt care

 me:  I care so much, so fucking much, and you know that. It's on my mind every second of every day and if I opened myself past the point of aloofness, people would figure me out as just another over ambitious hack and while that's good, I'd like to have a sort of playful carefree fireball standing with those that don't know me  well...though I can't disregard how many times I've had the same conversation you're starting with myself. You're a really great friend, Bryan

 Bryan:  i think you get too caught up in the fireball part. thank you. i consider you a good one myself... i guess what im saying, which i promise is not a criticism, but an attempt to explain the perception that people feel they'll never see you again

 me:  yeah. I know what I want to do, which is write, but don't really know how to go about it...but that's what the rest of this shit life is for

 Bryan:  yeah. so stop being afraid of not knowing exactly what you want to do. its par for the course. i dont know what i want to do but i do know i want to write so im heading off on the journalism course. i like this shit but i dont think its who i am. itll be part of who i am but it will not be the only thing ill ever do

 me:  Like Baron Davis' Grandma said "Take that ball away and who are you?"

 Bryan:  yeah my concern is that i get to write and you know what a lot of my favorite writers did reportage or criticism. they wrote. because thats what bonds us. we love to write. we need to write. the final outlet will vary. apparently im into verbosity tonight. simply put: i want to write. don't know what yet. but i have some ideas so im starting to check them off the list until i find the one i want

 me:  Do it I have so many more novel ideas now I think I'll put off getting a real job til this one is as good as it can be. though it'll never be perfect, it's me.

 Bryan:  thats important. alright playa. i gots work int he morning and a 1500 word essay on myself to write so im going to catch some sleep, wake up early and try to write a draft. catch you soon. on a final note, i expect to see you come february but i wont lie id be bummed if you dont come back im not intending on that happening though. night killa...what i know will be up as soon as i finish this essay

 me:  AWESOME. I'm doing mine now

 Bryan:  awesome

 me:  I'll be back for you, Nick, Jeff, Brock,  Nico, Mc, & the rest of 'em. the cousins and brothers I never had

 Bryan:  were a pretty special lot. lets take advantage of that and show we are to the world. come back for the club meetings

 me:  such is the "New" Newhindenburg

5/31 Warm Up: All About My Friends

When embarking on a grand endeavor one must go forth with gusto, throwing caution into the wind and harboring far-strung expectations about one's ability, work ethic, and their joie de vivre. These hopes might not be met on a consistent basis and curses if they are. Jumping into immediate success and the all-encompassing implications will only hold us back. To wit: if we leap in the water with an innate knowledge of the backstroke, we will only swim the backstroke. Even if we become the world's preeminent backstroker, we will only to be able to aid the metaphorical swim team to which we belong in one event (two if the metaphoric swim meet has medley relays). 

This big project at hand. My feeble attempt at fostering whatever lies within myself is not exploding into superstardom in one bold brilliant burst. It comes slowly and painstakingly. We fight for the words, doubt their efficacy upon putting them to paper, and long for that passionate explosion of near genius or at least publishable prose. Work comes long and hard, but I wouldn't have it any other way. 

The process of watching one's abilities grow and flourish is much more fulfilling than expounding greatness at the very first opportunity. Things are uneven and at time's painstaking, but other instances when we grasp what we're trying to do, how such a task will be accomplished, and a various assortment of factors, it is so joyous, one cannot help but dance. 

I spent a good portion of last night dancing to Raffi in my underwear. I imagined Magic Johnson was in my room boogying down with me. It wasn't the old and bloated Magic that mars TNT's NBA broadcasts with stammering and pronunciation of basketball as "basset-bow" but the young, vivacious lad that hung over my bed in my youth. At this moment I remember that the first poster I ever put up on my own was that poster of Magic. It was a replica of an oil painting and my Mom brought it home from her work. 

When you grow up in Michigan, Magic Johnson means a lot. One of my Mother's friends told me that she attended Michigan State University at the same time as Magic (Earvin to his family). Though this woman, Darlene, was constantly around, blighting my seven year old life with her kisses and obese embrace, that did nothing to deter me from asking for her autograph.  

Writing is an obtuse and fickle art form. It is not uncommon for one to toil their entire life without something to show for it. Unlike the visual and musical forms there is nothing ingrained in our instinct to recognize and realize how to put it into use. Reading is a relatively new form. Even if film is a modern invention, humans have been using the sense to survive since the beginning of time. Paint a picture, shoot a shot, and it is somehow innate. Over the course of our specie's existence recognition of sounds and images have been used to help us attain our needs and survive. Medicine was founded in it, it has probably helped shape sexuality as well. 

On the converse: Reading comprehension and writing a good sentence have never helped one survive. I could be misinformed. It is quite possible that Crocodile attacks occur when a Croc takes a man in his jaws and asks him to produce a beautiful limerick and will be eaten if it falls short. 

I'm not trying to say that writing is a more difficult art to conquer or understand. I merely argue that the state (and mindset) required to produce quality written words is slightly scarcer within us (at least within me). 

The work is coming. Coming quite well, but it requires a tedious waiting game that often proves boring or frustrating. When doing something I feel is "good" a certain feeling is close at hand. I will kill time until taken by this feeling. I can give you a rundown of what transpires before and after the feeling but in the grips I remember nothing. I am at my happiest when looking up from the keyboard and realizing that three hours have passed. 

It's getting easier and easier to get there. Learning so much. Happy with every decision so far. For all the trials and tribulations I've put myself through I couldn't see myself doing anything else. To echo sentiments from previous posts I am "following my joy". 

This is my warm up session. 6- 8 hours of writing or thinking about writing wait ahead. I woke up at 3 in the morning (wow what a sleep!) from 9 until 3 with a three hour interruption for a game of ultimate frisbee. 

If you'd indulge me... I'd like to describe my friends to you. I feel the feeling, but only want to do this right now. That's another thing about the feeling. You might conjure it, but you can't control it. You can only go where it lets you. 

On the phone to my mother I described him as "sort of a hippy". This was misspoken. What I meant to indicate was that he possesses a deep calm and happy atmosphere that allows one to feel at home in his presence. I suppose I lumped him into the "drum circle" archetype because of interests, Native American attire, and eating habits. This veneer paints a solid picture of a person but fails to do him justice. A child's zeal and a mathematician's analytical mind are there waiting for you. He also introduced me the "everything bagel", an attribute which cannot be underestimated. Perhaps he escapes in-capsulation. To get the point across: On a lark I called on him for assistance with a large endeavor. This sort of call has been many times, but no one has ever responded like Ball's Deep as he has. 

People are often defined by their facial hair, especially women. He is no woman. He is a man among men. When the follicles on his face rebelled against the norm to form a full fledged beard, his personality coalesced at least as I understand it. There is a rigid masculinity to him, not only in his behaviors (awesome ones) but his beliefs. A code of honor courses through every capillary. Upon entering a constant onslaught of conversation, hints and allusions were made. Putting these pieces together I see a manifesto at work. It's easy to imagine him valiant in Medieval battle or writing a guide to modern man hood. I'll never be a soldier but I'd go to war with him. 

The Cheerleader. The Mother Owl. The purveyor of understanding and weaver of mythologies. He hooks you from the start. Upon first catching his vibe I thought "I hope we become friends". He coaxes one in with humor and a constant desire to understand, learn, and encounter. His approach to friendship is one of family. Good meals, adventures in slew, spend time with him and the world only gets bigger. People are brought in, truths are formed, family is made.  Though he will miss the reference, he is Steve Nash on the fraternity level. Everyone around him is made bigger, better, stronger by his presence. You realize this and hope to do the same for him. We share the same flaws and strengths, because of this we owe it to each other to always be there. 

Six Year Old Muse, jumping off rocks as a Cantonese Shoplifter landing as a Puerto Rican Girl before going to the car as an Old Gypsy. The ultimate chameleon, he shifts day to day, projecting the world and weather on his persona like archaic green screen technology. Six year old boy with rocks in his pockets. Plato on a coke binge. It's hard to make sense of all these persona rattled off with the expertise and confidence of one's true self. Don't try to make sense of it. Just try and keep up. 

It is the rare and important relationship that could benefit from a fist fight. When you reach this juncture of hatred, love, and far reaching history, you know it's special. Like two squabbling chickens astray in Los Angeles, you go about your ways, leading your separate lives and scavenging for your own sustenance. The chickens encounter many terrifying and trying tribulations, but upon getting to the coop and going to roost, they see each other like they see themselves. Things maybe strained but deep down it's always the same: <3>

I saw a television show that really struck me once. People were dying everywhere in a myriad of forms, some beautiful, others ridiculous. As their mortal coil expired, their loved ones came about and waved them over to the next world. Regardless of whatever great people I encounter and uh... fuck... I know he'll be there waving me in next to an elderly Filipino Woman. There's a lot to this one, but that's the thing that matters. My brother, my wife. 

When dark times come and we look over our lives feeling like peonic shit, he is a redemptive factor. I know that if I have a friend so good & honest & pure that I'm doing just fine. He is the rare beacon of calm in this turbulent world, content to sit and smile like a glacier. Each interaction is a blessing. It doesn't matter what, where, who, or how. What matters is the prevalent feeling of peace. Also: homecooked meals, alley-oop passes, and that cherubic smile. 

The Monk sees all. As much as I know/love him, he remains a bit of mystery. From what I can tell he bounces through life with an unmatched gift of gab and insight into any and all things (true or false is none of his concern. His mind revolves around a universe of that one time anyone did anything, baseball statistics, and the literary equivalent of soft core pornography.) He's like a drunk uncle, but sober. He shows up at the family home, giving advice that no one wants to hear because they know it is true. So much strife has been prematurely dammed by his insights. There are many times that I leave him scratching his head but I have an inkling that he knows me better than I know myself. I'm pretty in love with writing these days, but only started when he pushed me.  

The limping vision of young America. If his life could be put in a time capsule and sent to the 22nd Century, our viking warlords would know what life was like as a 21st century youth. They'd ask "why does he walk funny?" and he'd give a remark of trademark caution bearing bite and good humor. He is equilibrium. Cynicism while searching for the silver lining. Affirmation and responsibility. We seem to be going parallel at this point in terms of reinvention, inspiration, and things we enjoy drinking. If unleashed on the future or downtown Las Vegas the world will see him the way I do: a legend in waiting. 

"Like a Gorilla seeing his reflection for the first time". Watching him do anything leaves one in a fog of befuddlement. Listening does the same but you begin to get the picture. K.I.S.S. Loves what he loves, does what he loves. A throwback to the time where men were men and drank whiskey on trains before setting out into some new town to get in bar room scrums and speculate for oil. His company feels like a distinct something but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is, either it's playing professional football in the 1920's or the best day of preschool. After an all night drunk he told me "I have a lot of fun around you." Such a sentiment is innocent and bare bones but hits hard as hell. 

The friendship cloud, the unexalted unicorn. Life is a grand adventure when he's around. Everyday is not just a day, but a joyous occasion fit for dancing. (and it usually involve dancing!) He gives thought where no one else does, bettering aspects and tangents that would otherwise go unnoticed . These displays of camaraderie, these Picassos hung in the dentist's office so to speak, come in such a constant onslaught that it can be tempting to take it for granted. Don't. Mired in a working relationship, it took me too long to think of him as a friend. Now that we're firmly ensconced in the whirling dervish of kinship, furious artistic fights, and facial decorations, I can go back and see us as friends from the beginning, just not ready to fully form yet. C'est la vie. Five Feet. 

Wow. What a warm up. I might be a bit behind in the Fatherly Advice/Kind of Like Giving Birth/211 Lessons (having a hard time picking a title) but who cares? To feel so loved this early in the morning feels better than anything. 

I hope you enjoy. I hope you're able to pick yourself out. It shouldn't be that hard even if I changed Caitlin's gender. 

Joel 

Wilson's Big Fat Oil Slick

Nick: If you were an animal what kind of animal would you be?
Me: Probably a retarded labrador retriever with a terrible closed head injury. And like only three legs.

*****

Foreward:

Note 1: I looked inside last night. For the first time, in a long time, I did not like what I saw. This realization led to a long night and many self inflicted debates.

Note 2: Two Months Ago, gripped by heroism and defiance towards the status quo, I formulated an idea. It was one I held very close to me. I am utterly unable to express it to people.

Since I am so weird, fucked up, maligned, awesome, handsome, adventurous, caring, beautiful I felt that the only way to cope with pressing matters was to merge them into one. If only I could somehow incorporate being jilted. I'd be the triple threat!

Anyway... Here is my horrible night and the first experimental chapter of Franklin & the Woods (which will be my second novel after the Worldbeating events of this summer).

Quit being such quitters.

*****

Out in the Woods where the World is very big
Lies a quiet little town where all is very small


"Dad, I have to go to the bathroom." Franklin piped up from the cramped back seat of the little yellow car as it wound its way through the dusty yellow roads of the Gargantuan Mountains.
Dad couldn’t look back; the road was curvaceous to the point that it demanded all his attention. 

Besides, even if he looked back, he wouldn’t have been able to see Franklin. The car was heaped with all of their possessions.

"Can you hold it? We're almost there."

Franklin wasn't sure he could. His bladder was about to burst. This was the first warning sign. He’d made an accident in the car on several prior occasions and was quite embarrassed by it. He couldn’t abide an accident now. Not today, not on the first day of his future. A wet cushy spill that makes Dad angry and Pants soggy was surely a bad omen. Franklin knew a lot about omens because he knew a lot about a lot of things. For his money, he was probably one of the smartest eight year olds in the world. He could discuss both Hawaii and Rocket Ships in great detail.

He also knew embarrassment. Heaping piles of shame and guilt sprang up from nowhere, making him small, making him tired. He knew the feeling well because, well, he peed his pants a lot. Becoming nervous or agitated, Franklin's eight year old body knew only one way to mark the occasion: with an unanticipated spray of urine.

*****

In the Pink Lay-Z-Boy that once sat before the fireplace, Dad held Franklin in his comfortable lap, looking down with hard and serious eyes. "Franklin, you might not like this, but we're moving. I know you love the city, but we can’t stay here anymore. We have to do something new."

The words danced a shivery quiver down Franklin's spine. Why were they moving? What was this small town in the woods? Would there be friends? Most importantly, would he finally have a dog? He didn't know how to feel, so he felt wet instead. Dad picked him up, helped change his pants, and began to pack. All their things fit so well in the cardboard boxes. It made perfect sense to Franklin. Cardboard boxes could be anything if you looked hard enough. Looking at the boxes: he saw all he knew. The stamp collection, the roller skates, the model train set. His entire life was there, stored in neat, organized containers. Franklin wondered if it was really that simple. Franklin wondered how he would look in a box.

****

The teeny tiny little town of Plumsville lies in the thick of the Great Forest in the great ridges of the Gargantuan Mountains. It was as far from the City as could possibly be. Dad told him so. He said that he grew up here and never even knew what a taxi was? Either the town was weird or Dad was stupid. Everyone knew what a taxi was!

Though it is a small town, there is a person for every job and a job for every person. As the locals used to say “People have Purpose it Coatesville.”

It was true. Living in such a small, sacred town imbibed the citizens of Plumsville with a pride and panache all their own. Every one lived a good clean life and said hello to their neighbors, what more could they ask for?

Cut off from the world by a moat of thick green forestation, a collection of sprawling trees and sloping paths, it was unlike anything Franklin had ever seen. Used to the high rises and urban bustle of dear, sweet Pittsburgh, he was shocked to learn that anything was so lush and vibrant. He'd never thought outside the city. His imagination was limited to Pittsburgh. Whether an astronaut or professional baseball player, one fact was non negotiable, the entire universe of Franklin’s imagination took place in Pittsburgh. He wondered why. He could turn a box into a submarine but couldn't leave Pittsburgh.

*****

"Dad, plllllllllleeeeease?"

Dad was unresponsive but the car did the talking, pulling over to the side of the road, sending gravel up in droves, before coming to an aggravated stop. Dad put the car in park and got out, opening the door for Franklin (who was unable to in the face of child safety locks). Franklin climbed out, eager to pee, pleased not to pee his pants in the back seat of the car (yet again). It was a long, hard journey so far, but now that he was outside a strange calm had overcame him. The air was hugs, the sounds were kisses. Who knew a place could feel so good. Looking into the woods, the brisk colloquium of Pines, he couldn't help but smile. He knew everything would be ok. He knew he wanted to run.

Franklin set off at a sprint but Dad reached out a meaty paw and stopped him by the collar. He was always a brute, posturing and preening in gestures of male dominance. Setting a strong example for his waifish son to replicate. "Franklin. Just a second."

"But I have to pee."

"You can pee in a second, Franklin."

"BUT I HAVE TO PEE NOW."

"That's fine. I know you need to pee in private but don't wander too far. The woods beautiful, but very dangerous as well. There are a lot of creatures in the woods. Don't get too afraid."

"I'm not afraid of any creatures."

"Well, that may be so, but mother nature is not to be taken lightly. Just stay close, ok? I know 

I’ve had some tough times in these woods, I wouldn’t want you to do the same.”

Franklin gave a weak little nod, confused at Dad's serious tone. He was always so soft, so pleasant, that it startled him to see his Father become so stoic, so serious. He would have dwelt on this for many more moments but nature called as shrill as it possibly could.

He set off for into woods, a fleeting euphoria floating slyly overhead. It would all be ok. This new town would be his town soon. He wouldn't miss Mom forever.

Stepping into the first rung of trees Franklin was shocked to see darkness swallow all, enveloping the entire woods in the hug of it's shadow. Franklin was always afraid of the dark but not now. This dark didn't forebode or threaten. It was absence. Clean, pure, void. A place where nothing could go wrong.

Not wanting to turn back, fears of accidents flitting about his head.

Franklin found a friendly tree to urinate on. As he peed he realized this was the first friendly tree he’d ever met. Were the other trees unfriendly? Or. Did he not know how to approach trees that weren't this one? Maybe, he'd never know. Maybe Dad knew. He finished his business and put his pee pee away. It was time to go back to the car, back to the new house, the new home, the new school. The new was waiting, impatient as hell and screaming for him to hurry.
Steps were taken towards the car. The steps were solid and steady but felt a bit off. They were headed in the right direction, but obviously argued against this distinction. He knew the car, dad, their story. This was something new, maybe a bit scary, but warranting an exploration. He listened to his legs and walked on. It might not be pleasant, but he would learn something. He was Franklin: the smartest eight-year-old in the world.

Up ahead: a cavalcade of shadows, dancing and moving about, beckoning him, asking him, daring him. Could he go? He didn’t know! But if he did, he just might grow.

The wind flew through Franklin's feet, carrying him with both the moment and the spirit. Off he went! A true worldbeater! In this mode nothing could hold him. ABSOULUTE POTENTIAL WAS TASTED! As fast as could be! The little boy and the woods! It felt like swimming. His small cool frame blew through the air, refreshed by every breath. He’d need a towel.

He knew he couldn't trust it. He could love this feeling but not follow it. He knew it was a risk. But more than any trepidation and fears a calm shot through Franklin. He was safe here.
Franklin reached a dark clearing, near pitch black. He looked around and saw nothing. A brief jangle came from above, startling him. Maybe it was a bird. Owls would love a place like this. An abode all creepy and filled with mice. Franklin turned to walk back to Dad and their new home. The way back was gone. He was here to stay.

The rustle of the trees grew louder and louder, shifting in both pitch and modulation. It almost seemed as if words were being formed.

Franklin was afraid. He knew this was a good place, he was glad to be here, but part of him knew it wasn't right. Such big feelings can sneak inside and overtake you. He didn't want to be a vehicle, he yearned for complete control.

He couldn't take any more darkness. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the brightest and most beautiful light in the entire world. It crossed his mind for a fleeting moment, enough to grasp a glimmer of image. He had it, but not for long. Darkness swelled once again.
The limbs and length of tree reached forward. The hoots and howls of the creatures came from all directions. It built and built, getting scarier and scarier before stopping suddenly, as if to pave the way.

"Welcome to the woods Little Prince. We've been waiting for you."

Screams. Sprints. Runs. He couldn't get back to the car soon enough. Though fleeing in terror, eager to replicate the world he knew, one fact was set in stone: He couldn't get back to the woods soon enough.

For the first time in his, Franklin felt full. Scared as fuck, but full nonetheless.