[192] Screed City

[192]

09/05/2022 Monday. Cardboard Box. Hampshire House. Portland, Maine.

I have to say, the 2 Liter Ticklers. Top notch! I mean, I am not sure what the next step will be, because they aren't the regular Ticklers at all. There is quite a bit of sugar remaining, but the effervescence is something else, and the flavor, like a shandy, for certain. I mean, the pressure on the bottle makes me a little nervous. The thing kind of wrinkles at the tip. So I think they may not be reusable after the one time, but so what? I mean, aside from the global aspect, the plastic waste, the bottles themselves cost $1.09. Nominal. And I can use the bottles themselves as vessels for regular Ticklers. You know? The un-bubblers. Either way, I am on to something.

Okay, good news out of the way. Let's talk about Portland. Ugh. I mean, I mean that in a very specific way. I drove here yesterday. Taking the pretty roads. Although my phone took me the kind of pretty way. Normally I spend a bit of time making sure the route I am taking is correct, but for whatever reason yesterday I just let the little guy have the lead. I mean, my bad, but still, the pay off of the pretty route is the White Mountains in New Hampshire, and I did see them yesterday, I just didn't drive over them. So that was a little bit of a bummer. I mean, it beats driving down the interstate. If that can be helped. An extra hour. But it adds days to your life, if not weeks, taking the pretty route.

I am staying at the empty house on Hampshire street again. This time I was able to turn the hot water heater on first thing. I mean, I got here at like 7:30p last night. Loaded in. Which took a couple of trips. I brought my own sleeping stuff. A few blankets, a couple pillows, I remembered to bring a towel. The electric kettle. Coffee stuff. Burritos for the week. I mean, I was doing alright. I got here and did some relaxing fiction writing. Not sure how I feel about the new piece, I mean, it is a little like Donkey [Italics] a little too like Donkey [Italics] but I think if I stick to it, it will serve it's purpose. Although I keep wanting to tie it to that book They Shoot Horses, Don't They? [Italics.] I mean, I named the main character Horse. Because he sighs like a horse all the time. And people get really annoyed with how depressed he is. And he is always "Flapping his lips in the breeze." I mean, he is a real sad sack. And something bad has happened in the recent past that is undefined, but probably has something to do with a woman. And he conjures up some scheme that is about to get his ass into some real trouble, I mean, it's pretty fun to write, but I still kind of want to mix my comical stylings of a book like Donkey [Italics] with the dark and brutal misery of a book like Postal Child [Italics.] But every time I start to write these Wyoming noir things, the absurdity of living in a place like Wyoming and being working class kind of gets in the way. I mean, that original noir stuff always took place in LA. With LA-types hanging around. The Wyoming noir only has Wyoming-types. And they all seem to be pretty one sided characters. Not because they don't have rich and complicated home-lives, but because there is really only a couple ways you can deal with a place like Wyoming, you are either from there and it is ingrained, or you come from out of town and that makes you a novice. I mean, in LA noir stuff, the characters all tend to be equally fucked because nobody can get ahead so everyone is scheming. In the Wyoming stuff, everyone has some boot-strap mentality that leads them to this kind of stoic absurdity of living that I have yet to break through. I mean, the genius of a story like Brokeback Mountain [Italics] which is a short story, in a book of short stories, is that it takes that stoicism and turns it on it's head, simply by making the characters gay. And, I mean, there are quite a few gay people in Wyoming, And they are not out and proud, but that is also an innate thing about Wyoming, as much as that kind of lifestyle is frowned upon, people there will generally leave you alone, as hypocritical and fascists as they are now, the gay panic in Wyoming seems to have abated for the most part. Or, more like, the Society of Wyoming has so far codified to a point that being gay is tolerated, but openly despised, so if you are gay in Wyoming, you just don't deal with the general public. I mean, it is a whole new Don't Ask, Don't Tell. I mean, at the moment, there is no way, in the writing, to just do some generic outsider thing to the characters to make them pariahs incarnate. I mean, my point being, as much as I am trying to create this new thing, I am really just re-hashing old memories in a way that is not creating the neo-noir like I would like it too. Instead it all comes back to Killing the Math [Italics] style story telling. Where everyone needs help, but nobody knows how to ask for it. I mean, I think my point is, Annie Proulx kind of already did it. And I need to shift gears if I am to actually make any head-way. On the other hand, Horse is thus far almost intolerably gross and broken. I mean, we'll see.

But I woke up this morning at 6a thinking I would do some good work. I made some coffee and looked at things. Took a shower with hot water. I slept well last night. The carpet was soft. I watched the movie "They Shoot Horses, Don't They" as I was going to sleep. I mean, Jane Fonda was kind of an amazing actor. She has a Black Dahlia vibe that is something else in this movie. I mean, I had to turn it off because it was keeping me awake. I mean, I left the place at 7:30a. Thinking it would be good to work on a holiday. Nobody would really be around. I wouldn't have to stop and have a conversation every ten minutes. As per usual. I mean, the commute was easy. No traffic at all. I stopped at the Hannaford's to get some chips and some granola bars for lunch. I drove into the Brewery. The place was a ghost town. I pulled into the shop's parking lot. There was literally not a single car. Just the Brewery van. I mean, something about that made me so nervous that I called my Brother Luke. He didn't answer. I gathered my things. Got out of Junior Mint. Stood there in the rain for a second. Looked at my phone. Hoping he would call me back. Nothing doing. I decided to go inside. I still had the key card from the last time I was here. The door opened. I went inside. The automatic lights turned on. There was a beeping. I heard the beeping. I didn't like the beeping, but I kind of ignored it. Then I became curious. I went over to where the beeping was coming from. I mean, my heart didn't sink, but that is the emotion I should have felt. I was looking at the alarm. The thing was prompting me to enter a code. I did not have a code. I sighed. I mean, what could I do? I walked back outside. I called Brother Luke two times. He didn't answer. I called Bob, he didn't answer. And then, naturally, the alarm started going off. I stood there in the rain waiting. Waiting for the cops to show up. The alarm went on and on. No cops showed up. Nobody showed up. Nobody called me back. I stood there in the rain. Wondering what to do. And then the alarm stopped. I walked over to Junior Mint and got inside. I waited for a while. Trying to figure out my next move. I couldn't work with that alarm going off. And I wasn't just going to hang out in the parking lot until I don't even know what. Maybe someone would eventually show up? I drove out of the parking lot and headed back to the empty rental house.

I mean, I pulled over at some point when I saw that Brother Luke had called me back. I was parked in front of a head shop. I saw a hippy wearing pajamas going inside. Maybe someone had triggered the alarm there too? Like she seemed like it was her day off and she had no choice but to come in and deal with something. I mean, Brother Luke answered this time. He said I had stressed out Little H by calling twice in a row while Brother Luke was in the bathroom. I said: "I think I called three times." I mean, Brother Luke laughed at my situation. He thought that maybe, just maybe I could go back when the Tasting Room opened. Which was at 11a. I told him that it wasn't worth it and maybe I would go to the beach or something. I mean, he was coming up from Martha's Vineyard or something, Cape Cod, so there was no chance we would meet up. I said I would talk to him later and thanks. I pulled back into the street. Drove back to the empty house rental. Went inside. Turned on the oven. Heated the burrito I had brought for lunch. I mean, I was hungry. I didn't eat dinner last night. And with my new diet, I was not going to eat until lunch. But the current scenario had changed things. I ate the burrito with chips that I bought. Then I took a nap. I mean, it's true I slept well, but I was still tired. I could have slept more. Plus it was raining and I had nothing to do. So I took a nap. I woke up at 10:30a. Still unsure as to how to spend the day. I looked at a map on my computer. Found a place where the ocean met the town. A place called Old Orchard Beach. I mean, I brushed my teeth. Took the coffee I had made for the day and my bottle of water, as well as the rain jacket I brought exactly because it was supposed to be raining today and I went out to Junior Mint and started driving.

I mean, it was a nice drive. I took the pretty roads to get there. There were marshes and things. Turkeys. I mean, when I got to Old Orchard I was kind of blown away. Not because it was something exceptional, the opposite. I mean, it was basically Daytona Beach, but in Maine. Motel after motel. With wild names, like The Rebekah Motel and Beau Rivage Motel. I mean, there was even an amusement park. And all these signs welcoming back Canadian tourists. Saying things like "Benevue, Canadians!" Surf shops and such. I mean, the weather was garbage, but the beach was hot. I mean, I drove past the action area, avoided getting lured into a parking scam and turned down a back street and parked in front of an apartment high-rise. I mean, had the weather been nicer I don't know what I would have done, because something told me I wouldn't have found a parking spot. But I parked and walked over the dunes and suddenly I was assaulted with ocean. I mean, I don't know why, but me and the ocean don't get along. I mean, at first, at very first, I find it amazing and overwhelming. Like, my god, the ocean is crazy, so big and stuff. But then I get bored really fast. It doesn't hit my soul the way that mountains do. I mean, I always want to jump into it and swim, but all the sand and the seagulls and the people walking on the beach and the people fishing and the surfers and the beach culture. I mean, it is lost on me. I mean, the dangerous cliffs outside of Tacoma, Washington, those are cool. When you have to be careful not to walk too far during a rising tide, I mean, because you might die. I mean, I can get on board with that, but still. I mean, I like to think about the moon and the relationship between the earth and the moon and the universe, I mean, that is pretty cool and all, but walking down the beach. My naked feet in the wet sand. I mean, I need to learn how to chill out. But until that happens. I mean, seaweed and shells? Salt water? Lobster rolls? I mean, I can kind of get on board with Budweisers and video games, but bros in khakis, sun kissed and date-rapey? On break from Ivy League schools? I mean, I know this is what Conservatives love to think about when they are whacking off to how gross the Dems are, and they are not wrong, and this is something I can agree with them about, but still, that White culture has nothing to do with me, and I want nothing to do with that culture. I mean, I did take a photo.

[Insert Beach Photo]

I mean, I did enjoy walking on the beach. I walked until I met some river thing that I would have had to take my boots off and wade across, or just turn back. I turned back. I mean, I probably should have kept walking, but by this point I was bored, and I was not in the mood to carry my socks and boots for the next hour just to pretend that I was having a philosophical epiphany, because I wasn't having a philosophical epiphany. I never do on the beach. As much as I feel like one is about to happen. I mean, every time I go to the beach I either get really bored, or I get really sunburned and bored, or I get really sunburned, half-drunk and bored. And then the people I am with drag me to some lousy shack on the beach that sells over-priced seafood that is usually just fried and plain boring over-priced seafood, or over-priced lobster with mayo and white bread. And everyone is like: "Yum! This is the best thing ever made!" And I have to pretend that what I am eating isn't just barely palatable, or I tell the truth and get an angry group of human seagulls barking up my tree about how I am a killjoy. I mean, no offense, but keep it to yourselves! I don't like the food, and I am an adult, I don't have to like it. It isn't a moral testament to your virtue. I am just a rare-steak with salt and pepper kind of guy. Seafood leaves me hungry like apples. And that is not your problem at all. So give me a fucking break and let me suffer in peace. And lemons are lousy limes. With seeds. Bitter and annoying.

I mean, I walked back to Junior Mint. The rain starting to really fall now. People were fishing and surfing and having a real go at it. Probably having a good time. I mean, I did wish I had brought some trunks, because the ocean looked refreshing. I mean, also, salt water. I find it kind of very gross when I get into the ocean. Like swimming in manure. But the manure is from fish and stuff. I mean, that can't be helped. I mean, the swimming pool in Aspen was salt-water. But that was man-made. And was different. I mean, the mountains in the background. I mean, make an ocean at the base of a mountain? I could get on board with that. I mean, I guess that is my point with the beaches outside of Tacoma. I mean, the treachery, the contrast. I mean, I want my ocean to be as dangerous on both sides as it can be. Too cold to swim in and carrying a stabbing knife. I want to know I am in danger at all times. Like being at the top of a mountain, where the weather can actually change at a moments notice. I want to feel alive, damn it! ALIVE! I don't want some general sense of the magnificence of nature, I want nature to butt-fuck me while I get my teeth kicked in by the curb of mortality! I want to be scared. And for good reason. I don't want to just have a nice kind of wild time while I unfurl my yoga mat and take selfies with celebrities. I want to know that I am not important. To be abused. To be spanked and spit upon. I mean, I want oblivion and death. I mean, I want what Howl wanted when he was screaming about eating his grandma's dirty diapers off the floor of CBGB's! Visciouser! Louder!

[Insert Allen Ginsberg CBGB Rant]

I mean, I think I am going through a mid-life crisis here. Which is just fine, but I do find it funny that none of the usual things are working anymore. And I do wonder if I need to get back to the City and just put an end to all this country living, because I feel like I am all over the place right now. Nothing is making sense. And it is all just a combo of having the best of all worlds taped together. I mean, at the moment I have all the money I need, all the ways to get more of it, I am full of food, whenever I want to eat I can. I mean, I was thinking about this today. While driving. Back like, shit, 14 years ago? No, but yes, I mean, ugh, age stinks, but back when me and Tim Murphy were talking to Touchdown, the guy that would work with us at Weiss sometimes, the theater kid that moved to the City to pursue his acting career, who would play the piano at the gigs we were doing, because there was always a piano in the school auditoriums we were working in, and he had theater muscles, meaning he looked strong as Good Will Hunting, but he was weak as shit, because his muscles were for looking at, and not for doing work, but one day I was talking to Murph about being poor in like Denver or something, starving, with no help coming from the outside, I mean, slowly starving to death, wondering where my next meal would come from and Touchdown, whose name was Joe Morone. who when we asked him what he wanted his nickname to be he immediately chimed in: "Touchdown!" Well, we were driving in the van. I was driving, Tim Murphy was in the passenger side. The shotgun. Because he never drove. Due to his lack of a driver's license. I mean, Touchdown listened to me telling Murph about starving in Denver and Touchdown had said: "Why didn't you just eat something?" Like I had been starving myself for some role or something. I mean, my point is; all the usual existential things have been ruled out at this point. I am no longer in the gutter. I am writing like the wind. I have two places to live. A job that is a cash-cow. A hot babe on my shoulder that keeps getting more and more successful. I mean, I should be on the top of the world, but here I am, unsure of how to proceed. Everything is too much of everything, but never enough of anything. I mean, I really think I am having a crisis. And I don't mean that in some sending up red flags kind of way, I really think I am trying to decide something that I just can't figure out. Like, just today I spent $200 bucks on some very cool personalized USB memory sticks that I want to use to get the Donkey Book on Tape out there with. I mean, my point, my actual point, is that having money and security is actually doing nothing for me. Not in the sense that I want it to do. I mean, I need to feel precarious, but I am not feeling it. I mean, this is what I mean, I mean, I may, I just MAY, understand now why men like me buy convertibles when they get to my age. Or buy motorcycles. I mean, I am not saying that I am self destructive, because that is not it at all, it is kind of the opposite of that. I mean, on one hand I have everything I would ever need, on the other hand I am sleeping on a carpeted floor going into work only to get scared away because it is a holiday so I go to the beach and I just flounce around getting annoyed with Society. I mean, here is my problem. I just spent three weeks in Wyoming, and then I spent a couple weeks in Vermont, now I am in Portland, Maine for the week. I mean, ten years ago, if I was myself, I would be blown away with what I was doing. Writing novel after novel. And being proud of myself about it. I mean, my writing it getting better and better. I can create a sentence without shame or thinking in a way that I would never be able to do a decade ago. But still, here I sit, broken hearted. Came to shit, but only farted.

And my fear, my biggest fear, is losing my momentum. Because there is still so much to do, yet with a day like today, I mean, I did absolutely nothing. I mean, I went to the beach. Then I came back. And then I went to the Walgreens and priced USB thumb drives. And finding them too expensive, I went back to the very empty apartment that I am renting at $31.50 a night, I bought 20 thumb drives for almost $200 bucks because they are going to be cool and I can send them out to people with the Donkey [Italics] book on tape. I mean, the absurdity explodes at this point. I mean, I made fun of the jerk on the beach earlier that unrolls their yoga mat and does tantric yoga to the tides, but who am I to judge that? I mean, life it life. We all need to live. To be alive. I mean, what am I missing? Do I need to buy a hog? Hit the American road? Write Travels With Charley [Italics]? I mean, I do love a good Steinbeck novel. Tortilla Flat [Italics] is one of his best. Way better than the one where he just drives around eating hamburgers. I mean, at this point I have to conclude that I am actually a novelist. My days of rock and roll and gutter sleeping are over. I just need to accept this fact. I will never be that youthful, starving, brooding hard-on that I was in my 20's and 30's anymore. I mean, I am shortly 45. And that really blows my mind. I mean, the change is now. I mean, my body is in good shape. I got some wimpy back things because I spend too many hours typing on a computer and making Cubby Bubbys, but I can fuck and I do seem to not be terrible over-weight anymore. In fact, I get slenderer by the day. But my face is looking more and more intense, and nobody mistakes me for a youth anymore. I mean, as far as Society is concerned, I am in the prime of life. But so what? I just want to know what it was that I fucked up, and when. And how to make it right again.

I mean, I am kind of joking with that statement, but MY GOD! Do I ever want to explore this idea and what I can do to help other people out that are going through life at this moment. Yet, all I can do is just write and vamp and screed. So it is, I mean, funny, because I just need to focus and get through the day as I try to keep moving forward. As as much as I would rather be some asshole getting paid to write, I read those things sometimes, the people like me that somehow break through and don't have to have a day job to keep doing this shit, and I won't lie, I do not envy them. I mean, I should be grateful that I am where I am. And even relish it. Because I have more freedom now than I have ever had. But still, tonight I sleep on shag carpet, and tomorrow I work like a fool for someone else. But Professor Curly has a sweet ass and we have a place to live in Vermont and NYC and we make enough money to afford it and art is hard, but it is worth it, and one day, maybe one day, if I play my cards right, I will feel okay in this world that is actually very interesting and worth all the time I spend observing it. I mean, life is pretty fucked up if you think about it. it's just all of us here, and right now. I mean, I went to this graveyard today when I couldn't take hanging out inside anymore. And of course there was that damn thing from the computer that has been bouncing around, but it went like this:

"Just know that you are looking at yourself in the future. What you are thinking now, I once thought."

[Insert Grave Photo]