Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Letters

I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully comprehend, to fully piece together what happened to my friend, Parabola Finch, on that awful Fall night. I was woken up by a call from the Nassau County police, an oddity in and of itself because I generally keep my cell phone on silent when it’s in the bedroom. It was about 3 in the morning; the voice on the other end apologized for waking me, but wanted some information concerning my friend, Finch. I didn’t understand why I was being called, and I said as much but the officer on the other end only repeated that mine was the only contact number they had. Finch was dead. I didn’t know how to understand that just then. Information like that—the death of a young man—a friend, there’s just no way to prepare for that. Minutes of silence passed before the officer suggested that I come down to view his personal effects myself, and to see if I could find contact information for anyone else they would need to call.

Was there anyone else? What did I really know about Finch? How did he die? At the time I assumed suicide, but when I intimated that to the officer he negated my assumption. I didn’t even want to suggest murder, and before I could the cop said that they weren’t quite sure how he died. Some kind of freak electrocution it seemed like.

Finch was going through some rough times. He’d just split from his wife—not divorce, just estrangement. They’d grown apart, he said. He’d moved out of the apartment they shared out on Long Island and had taken a garret room in an old boarding house near Lloyd Harbor. He had taken on an obsessive need to write, and blamed the demise of his personal relationships on this. He seemed almost to care more about filling up notebooks—which he did readily and with speed—than about people as of late. The people in his life, his family (what little he had left) and friends became sources of synthesis for him. Objects he could release into his stories, always able to control the outcome of any conversation or encounter. After I got off the phone with the police, I couldn’t get to sleep, so I started sifting through some letters and emails Finch and I had sent to one another. We had communicated in some fashion at least every day, and we’d developed almost a shorthand language between the two of us. Most of it silly wordplay, nonsense; but it kept us creative. I empathized with Finch and his desire to write, and we would often talk about taking a road trip and renting a cabin up in the woods to just write in solitude. I guess Finch did his own version of this, moved out of his co-op and into that garret room. He stopped sending me emails then, and only sent handwritten letters. A scrawl of black ink on lined paper. Harsh slashes and curves. He was writing again.

“Tim! I know that no one understands why I had to leave. Why I needed to get away from everything. Why I needed to dedicate myself to writing and writing alone. For now at least. I think that you understand, and I know that you’re not going to judge me. At least I hope you won’t. The pull was just too strong. I didn’t bring much with me. Pens, paper, my books, my notebooks, a portable typewriter. As soon as I moved in, and put my stuff down I had the urge to write. The instantaneousness of it, the creative urge blasted out from solitude. This can’t last forever.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he thought wouldn’t last forever. His estrangement from life? His urge to write? I just don’t know, and not wanting to make him feel bad about himself I never asked. I wrote him back, told him that I was excited that he was making the move to write full time, but expressed how wary I was about how his personal relationships would suffer. I also asked him to describe his new place to me.

“It’s off. It’s clean and neat, of course, but it’s an attic. There’s a separate entrance on the East side of the house; a rickety zig-zag of stairs that were added to the outside a while back (so the owners told me). The room is basically a large rectangle. The ceiling is a sloped peak—so much so that you can only really stand at full height when walking down the center of the room, and a couple of feet to each side of the center. It’s really pretty nice and roomy. There’s a tiny bathroom to the East; just a toilet, sink and shower (the bathroom ceiling slopes too!), and a small kitchen area just opposite the bathroom. There’s a little nook that doesn’t slope, an open area on the North side, this is where I’ve put my writing desk. There’s a window on that wall, but it’s been boarded up. I’ll have to check that out soon.”

We went back and forth a few more times. Short letters, story ideas and plot summaries mostly. We had wanted to collaborate on something, but our collaborations very rarely made it past the outline stage. It wasn’t long after he moved that he had his first short story published in the Magazine of Science Fiction & Fantasy. It was a strange and terrible story about a man who commits a crime in the present, but is sentenced for his transgressions in the future—an alternate future. The man’s punishment is to live imprisoned within the mind of the man he intended to murder. It was brutal, and screamed of loneliness and uncertainty. Throughout the course of the story, the main character, the murderer, decides to kill an innocent man based on a cascade of paranoid and almost wholly made-up list of perceived wrongs. There’s one scene where it seems as if the main character is being guided by some unknown force, as if he’s being controlled. I wrote to him as soon as I‘d read it, to congratulate him on his success.

“Thanks, TIM! I didn’t mention submitting to F&SF because I knew you subscribed and that you’d see the story if it got published. I just found out which issue it was going to be in a week ago! What a surprise. People seem to really like it. It’s weird because, and this will sound strange, but I don’t really remember writing it. Not all of it anyway. I definitely outlined it, and I found some of my older drafts, but I must have gone into one of those writing trances—like we used to talk about, that place of pure creation…in the “zone.” Ha ha ha. I’m still giddy at seeing my name in print. Have a great idea for the next one.”

His next letter didn’t come for another three weeks. I’d tried sending him a few emails but they all bounced back. His next few letters were alarming, and strange. I was shocked upon reading them again after receiving that phone call from the police. I didn’t really remember reading them previously, bits and pieces stood out in my memory, flashing to life as a re-read the words, but on the whole it was as if I were reading them for the first time.

‘TIM! I submitted another story to F&SF. I probably won’t hear back from them for a while, I just wanted to let you know beforehand this time. This one is about a writer who is able to transform his world through his writing. First just in little ways, then in profound reality warping ways. After a while he becomes unsure about which world he’s living in; the real world, or the world of his own fictions. He even begins to doubt that he’s the actual author of either world. I have a good feeling about this one too. Oh! Also, I pulled those boards away from the wall—there’s a window behind it! The glass is filthy and covered with tar, or black paint. I’m going to scrape it clean one day this week. Since it faces North I might have a good view of the park from here. I’ll let you know if the story gets accepted.”

Attached to this letter was another, dated the same day, but sent separately—I must have paper clipped the two together when I received them.

“Tim! It’s weird, I just re-read the story I was just writing to you about, and it’s really good—but there were whole passages that are unfamiliar! I think we’ve both probably been in the “zone” while we were writing. Where it feels as if something else, our higher consciousness or whatever is guiding our writing. This feels different, though. I mean, most of it is clearly me, but the parts where Austin Zenn (the protagonist) is writing his book-in-a-book are just weird. Odd staccato sentences. I don’t know, it’s good though. I’ll send it to you!”

I put the letter aside and sifted through the box of Finch stuff I’d collected, which was mostly handwritten letter, but included a few email print outs. I put the bulk of his letters aside and lifted the stained and dog-eared manuscript he’d sent me. I read most of it, mainly because I wanted to wait to read it in print, but he was right, there were parts that were unlike anything he’d ever written before. I’d simply chalked it up to the progression of his artistic talents. I picked up his next letter.

“I finally got around to cleaning off that window. It’s pretty amazing what I’ve found; a great view of Caumsett state park—which I didn’t even think I’d be able to see from here; A broad expanse of tree-tops spreading out into the distance, and rising up above the trees something that shouldn’t have been there. At first I thought it was a church steeple, or some kind of weird water tower but it was much too thick, much too tall. You’ll never believe this, but it was an obelisk. A large stone, brown and pitted as if it’d sat amongst those trees for more ages than mankind has walked upright. I just sat there on the floor in front of the window looking at it. Watching as the trees undulated like an ocean below it. Like an ocean or a great grey-green organism with strained breath, wounded by that thick stone spike sticking out of it. I’d never heard of anything like this existing on Long Island. I’ll need to do some research, maybe even walk to the park and see if I can find it.”

Truth be told, I didn’t really believe him. He was very interested in themes of false realities and loved to explore what was it that made us human—often he would send me stories that mixed fantasy and reality, so I’d thought that this was just another one of those. I was intrigued however, and sent him a letter asking him more about the oddity in the park. His next letter came a few days later.

“Got my acceptance letter from F&SF for the newest story today. Feels really good. I had a strange dream last night. Dreamt that I was here in my room, but it was all blue shadows and black ink. I was sat at my desk, looking out the window at that monument. It rose above the tree line—which was purple, and still—and the sky was yellow and grey. The clouds were arrayed around the obelisk in disturbing striations, as if the sky were a giant muscle, relaxed now but ready to flex at any time. Or maybe it looked like scar tissue up against the vault of heaven, left there as a reminder of some long-forgotten transgression. A flock of monstrous birds wheeled their way out of the west and began circling the tip of the obelisk, lazy and sickly. As I watched they began to drop, silently and one by one, into the purple forest beneath them. I looked down at my paper, I guess I was writing, and it was dotted with blobs of black ink, black shapes scattered across a white page. The ink continued to spatter onto the page, and then I realized that it was coming from my face. Ink was running out of my eyes and nose, and as it dropped onto the page it formed words. I couldn’t read them though. But I tried. I stared and searched my mind trying to find the key to unlock this new language. The ink dropped faster onto the page and suddenly…SHOUTING…PROPHET…

I found it, and I breathed out sharply and a great gout of black liquid belched out of my mouth. I could see sinew and bone and, I think, my glasses vomiting forth in that black torrent.

SO weird! I wonder if I can work that into a story.”

I didn’t know what to think about this. I was getting worried about Finch, but I was also going through a few personal struggles, so I lapsed in my correspondence. But Finch didn’t…

TO BE CONTINUED

Sunday, April 4, 2010

underunderground

1

don’t sit too close to the TV, you’ll burn your brains out. tie your shoelaces, close the door

look both ways before you cross. make sure to chew your beliefs before you swallow. lying in bed at night remember to check your heartbeat.

gasp for air–

feel it filling your lungs. feel the fear and emptiness as the room gets bigger

underunder the covers.

move on to adolescent indulgence, forever self-loathing and other masturbatory behaviors. invent the quote best years of your life. the way it all seemed so innocent like outta some fucking bruce Springsteen song. its all wasted

away in a cloud,

in blurred visions of birthday candles,

in spilled cups that were always half empty.

now when that telephone rings and you hold up to your ear and that voice being transformed into electronic data tells you “you’ve lost it kid.” leave in search of another message or lit neon bar sign. one drink for the childhood nightmares that kept you awake.

for the monsters have all become a reality of evil thoughts.

put another song on the jukebox and try to forgetforget

2

i burn every bridge i cross. i am a sick fuck of nowhere hells vicious cycle of bad luck– another spilled drink, a broken condom, an unemployment check

i’ve never had a whore

before, but now i’m drunk

so i walk by them stoned,

and go home and masturbate to the dirty cunts.

i am the dented bumpers and forgotten hubcaps of the highway. the gambling debts, unemployment lines, painkillers. the great impounded vehicle. i am rape and pillage. i am the mindless jobs, the blood filled black phlegm cough. i am being forced by my own ignorance to steal to lie. i am

to be sold into this life like property and made to be a capitalist slave of democracy and the dollar.

i am being broken down and left with nothing. being ignored, remembering all your falls, all your mistakes. i am continuing to dull the senses, the lack of hope. i am dark rooms, insomnia and withdrawals. i am why you keep your fists clenched and grind down your tobacco stained teeth. why your patience is getting shorter with every carton of cigarettes.

why you wish you could do it all over again

3

keep using balled up newspaper to wipe your ass. leave your mark on the walls you choose to piss on. get canned food from the local churches and drink in front of the sacred television waiting for something else to happen. when you feel the breaking point and your hands wont stop shaking and the walls are closing in and the world seems so heavy–collapsing overover you

there’ll be a knock at the door and you’ll wonder if its death

and you’ll be standing at the window there, and you’ll see that dark blue summer night sky flashing with fireflies. and you’ll answer the door and find the landlord left you an eviction notice. so you finish your bottle of whisky, light that last smoke, and grab your pistol. you’ll remember your father

lying in the hospital bed dying

saying you end up with what you started with

Broken Beer Bottles

where to begin is in the confusion of the mind…it starts when you’re completely alone, the ticking beating breathing (get on with the dying already.) take the bad news as a sign of the times, of crossed lines, of a bar coded existence, of failed dreams and the big lie…our haunted corroded eyes in the mourning sun from defeated bleeding sidewalks of Newark to empty heartland factories of Detroit, hurricane green seas of Mexico to the old world deserts of the Middle East, the genocide of Mother Africa. (it’s all so uplifting.) peril is in the air, taste it in the water, feel it in the ground beneath you, keep an ear out and hope for a new day when the ones screaming or with no voice at all find a new meaning, a new passion, a new dope…our modern illness is mental, the drones following one another with no lord or leader no prophet no mess sigh uhhh just two boards. look to your holy walls and floors, holy lighting fixtures, holy high definition. holy wars…the truth is in the liar like the bite of an apple is to original sin (and the genetic inevitability of tragedy hate greed.) my addiction is tired today, i think i’ll bring my burdens with me and carry them from my hole in the wall out to the city, a city divided by kolor kreed klass…the thoughts of a flooding end to wash away this mess we call the US, comfort in knowing my heavy heart is half-sold and my soul is the only collateral i’ve got and ever had…i stopped counting the minutes long ago (now the days just seem longer.)

Suburban Loser - Chapter 1 - Screaming at the Wind

The ding-ding-ding of the car door provided the backbeat as I reached to turn up the volume on the stereo. The band whined and wailed my pain, I squeeze the bridge of my nose, fighting off my headache. I stepped out of the car, fished around in my jacket pockets as I looked around the empty gas station.

Just the guy nodding off behind the counter. The wind whipped down the empty parkway and pressed itself against me. I pulled out my pack of smokes, flipped it open, and stared long and hard at the last one left sitting alone in the crumpled box. I pulled it out, popped it in my mouth, cupped my hands and lit it up with my zippo.

It's moments like this that I'm glad I smoke. Sometimes you just need a vice to fall back on when everything else is gone. I took a drag and leaned back on the hood. The engine was still warm, helping me fight off the chill. I released the smoke from my lungs and closed my eyes. Nicotine rush made my legs wobbly.

The music roared, pumping from out of the blown speakers, that slight vibrating tick of the soundwaves reverberating the broken pieces. I've never been much to pay attention to lyrics, but something about sadness, doomed relationships, emotional trauma, wrapped around me. It made me feel less alone.

Somewhere out in this godforsaken reality lies a promised land, an urban utopia, a metropolitan mecca to experience, where kids just like me are living it up and creating something, anything at all to express themselves, to have fun, to get laid and party.

But that's beyond me. My time had passed. I was stuck just beyond that impenetrable veil, despite the Long Island Railroad and a few bucks being able to get me there, that life was not to be mine. I was not made for New York City, it would chew me up and spit me out. No way would I survive out there, alone.

I finished my cigarette, flicked it towards the gas pumps, and stepped up onto my bumper. I walked up onto the hood, denting in the metal, not giving a shit, turned towards the red flashing stoplight and gazed angrily out upon the empty streets. I thought about how in an hour or two, the sun would rise, and cars would be rushing about as if these people's lives mattered.

I reached deep down inside, took a huge, gasping breath, arched my back and threw my body forward as I screamed for all I was worth. I screamed at my family, I screamed at my friends, I screamed at my girlfriend, I screamed at nothing at all.

The music died down as I sat on the hood, my arms wrapped around my knees, and I cried at what a pathetic loser I was. Trapped in suburbia.