I’ve had 14 years to think about this book and have written about two million words that need to be cut by 90%. I don’t even want to wade into those depths. I imagine working on it full time would be like taking up permanent residence in a public restroom. I can understand most sexual urges in some way, but the idea of going to hang out in the mens room to have anonymous sex with somebody, man or woman, just seems the nadar of disgust. I had trouble pooping in the company of my first few girlfriends and was incomprehensibly disgusted when they did it while I was around. Don’t worry, I’ve had years of therapy since then. As a child, I got beaten for pooping when nobody wanted to change my diaper. I was out of them very fast because of that but it obviously left traces of pathos in my brain, like filthy shit skidmarks in the freshly cleaned tidy bowl of life.

I don’t believe in earthquake predictions but I’m predicting one for this area (southwestern Mexico). We normally get a 4.5 every week or so but I haven’t felt anything in a while. Hopefully it won’t be bigger than a 5 but anything is possible living in the, can’t remember what it’s called, circle of fire? Asshole of the earth. The volcano just outside of Guatemala City is very impressive. There’s a pretty active one not far from here just outside of Puebla.

I listened to Jimi’s “Nine to the Universe” but then after those glorious nine minute  were up the next song that the internet played was Jimi’s version of “Blue Suede Shoes” which is outright embarrassing. Thank god he started writing his own material.

In used to date a girl named Cheron who owned a book store in Reno. Actually, she owned two. She was very intelligent and gave me the benefit  of the doubt that I was never deserving  of, my faking of orgasms because I was using heroin at the time, etc. She said she used to tell people Jimi Hendrix was her father, I think. She wasn’t even born until 1978 I think. She just had a child somebody told me. She moved from Reno to Tucson, Arizona for a while. I went to visit her and accidentally stepped on her ferret, George. He was hiding in a rug (DON’T have rugs all over the place and invite guests in if you own a ferret). I used the bed as a springboard and landed on something squishy. I felt horrible. She made me feel even  worse. I think of the disasters that would’ve occurred had I married some of the girls I dated. I think that one would’ve been okay. She was very cool. Her book store was having a birthday party for Hunter S . Thompson the first day or two of my job as arts editor of the newspaper there. I went down to check it out. There was plenty of Wild Turkey, too. I had way too much of both, cake and Wild Turkey. On my walk home, I slipped into an alley on Virginia Street to relieve myself. I was so occupied by drunkenness I didn’t see or hear the policeman walking toward me. The first thing I saw was his shoe, which I was soon pissing on. He threatened to book me for assault on a police officer. I asked him why he was checking out my cock. I was arrested for urinating in a public place. The judge was cool and read it as the number of the municipal code I had violated instead of reading it as what I did. He wore the kind of earring guys wear to show off the fact that they have an ear pierced. I could see he was wearing black jeans under his robe when he walked into the courtroom. I haven’t been arrested in over 6 years. I do realize that for polite society, that’s hardly a feat to brag about.

The world needs to be washed.

Who’s washing the washers?

My friend Enrique still sitting in some vat of acid somewhere up in the hills above the city where the drug labs operate. Not a good idea to go traipsing around up there, especially if you have no reason to be up there. Last time I was up there I was robbed at rusty knife point by a guy. He even took my rosary. As soon as he was a couple steps away I picked up a rock and threatened to pelt him with it. There was a standoff. If I threw it and missed he would certainly come after me with the knife. I was wearing flip flops, broken chanclas so I knew I wouldn’t be able to outrun him. I dropped the rock and he took a few steps away from me. I found a bigger rock and picked that up. He stopped again. Finally I thought about what might and could happen and the end was either me seriously injuring him or him stabbing me to death with that knife. I didn’t think he deserved to die for robbing me and I quickly realized I would have to kill him if I wanted my stuff back.

Raised on replicas on remnants.

Beautiful rage on the stage, performed for less than minimum wage.

Tried to get into Garth Risk Hallberg’s “City on Fire.” Couldn’t find any room in his writing for my own thoughts. Stifling in that book. I need a margin, a shoulder along the narrative highway. Back when my anxiety and panic flared up every time I tried to drive, even when I played a video game with a driving theme, I found myself in the Mojave Desert and I figured, worst that happens is that I go blind and then I just pull off to the side and don’t have to worry about it. I’ve driven across the USA more than a dozen times. Haven’t done it since Darla and I went to North Carolina in 2003. For all intents and purposes (or as I’ve seen it written, “For all intensive purposes”) that was the end of our relationship and marriage. When we got back she flipped the page. I took the job at the newspaper and moved into a horrible furnished monthly pad. I visited her on Tuesday nights and slept over usually. Her grandma did my laundry and even ironed my shirts. I had spent almost the entire month of August that year never getting out of bed, just lying there in a blissful narcotic bloat from the poppy pod tea. That article really exploded. Probably the most read thing I’ve ever written. I’m not proud of that one.

Okay. All warmed up and ready to work…

 

 

 

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