Herbert Leatherman becomes bored easily. He’s tiredly unaware of this. He searches for dissatisfaction and controversy. His temperament oscillates systematically for a three to five day cycle—always culminating with a day of exhaustion, isolation, and responsibility avoidance.
Herbert’s main conflict, for this book’s purposes will be to overcome his cyclical nature. He will slowly learn to manifest his own personal life pace. In doing so, he will, while still achieving most of what he wishes, remove the idea of responsibility all together.
This work will be difficult.
I want to make a bumper sticker that reads: "I'd rather be doing what I'm doing right now."
That would be cool.
And then there are the periodicals.
I’m overwhelmed with 7-11’s periodical section and its display of style magazines covered with phenomenally attractive girls (the word women doesn’t seem to fit) seemingly saying, “Fuck me Keith. I am so fuckin’ hot. Just, fuck me!”
Like most men I really like this. Unlike most men I resent the blatant stimulus of my sexual instinct fabricated by some editor-in-chief seeking my purchase of his periodical. For me, what results from this virtual New York modeling agency in pulp is uncomfortable desire and true dissatisfaction. For one, I can’t have the girl and even if I could the probable heart throbbing control she would foster . . . not to mention the maintenance plan and her deluded sense of princess status. But . . . what if. . . ?
And so as I leave the 7-11’s red and green behind; cigarette, or glazed donut, or (if I’m lucky) balance bar, in hand, I’m left with the pungent taste of reality lurking just a few short neighborhood blocks away. For no matter how attractive my lady friend might be, she’ll never have a chance measuring up to the very green grass my humble appetite just encountered.
It’s not Bruce’s fault that he is unemployed. He’s tried many times to find work. It’s difficult for him. Many times he’s said (when he’s conjured the gumption to formulate his tortured thoughts into cognitive words) that he was not made to work in the typical work world. He’s even suggested that he has a handicap that has yet to be declared by the people who decide these things. Although Bruce has never said such and even though he most likely doesn’t actually know this consciously, Bruce believes he is being persecuted. He considers society’s treatment of him analogous to any form of racism.
Bruce feels little. He lacks any semblance of self-confidence and he is addicted to negative thought. Bruce hates living except when he is drunk. He hates hangovers and wonders if the pleasure from being drunk is equal to the anxiety he feels when the drug loses its potency.
Bruce is unemployed and lives in the rented basement room of a house divided into four apartments.
He reads when he concentrates long enough to do so. He gets through maybe a paragraph or so.
In my never-ending desire to manufacture the cleverest literary stunt since Harlen Mc’Covey published the infamous “one-word novel,” I have decided to introduce and reveal ideas, characters, and plot structures here, in this web journal. As a work in progress, you, the voyeur, will witness Dead in Bath Tub Water (working title) take shape and breath life.
And seeing as you have surfed your long-board here, today, if you e-mail me within the next fifteen minutes (or however long it takes) you will have an opportunity to have a character based on you. Yes, that’s right, the first person to e-mail me at makeMeAcharacter@jeremysprophecy.com will star, as a supporting character, in my next novel, scheduled to have a first run printing of 50 thousand copies.
So act now. Make sure to include some basic info, and some interesting anecdotes to help improve your chances in case of a tie.
Good luck, and thank you for your support.
Obvs. 1: I was taken aback by the ecstatic glee in Brenda Morrison’s face. She turned my way and said, “Now close your ears now son. . . They closed ? . . .Cause He’s got a fine ass that Garth does!” Her legs shuffled and her slippers slid as she stared at the television broadcasting the special live concert event. Her friend Mary sat on the couch in awe. Her children even joined the worship by spining in circles on the carpet.
I knew of Garth Brooks before today, the way a middle-aged banker might have known Britney Spears. Today, though, it was like we ate Turkey together and we cleaned the cranberry slush on the corners of our mouths, with our tongues, together. Today I met Garth Brooks.
Obvs. 2: She’s pudgy in the thighs and biceps, but by the sound of her heavy breathing, it’s easy to see she’s ready. Seeing all the excessive condensation in the frigid air makes one think they’re all ready. Not quite sunrise and I can swear I hear a track and field starter's gun. The vulnerable gatekeeper unlocks the automatic, glass doors. The pudgy one gets into Wal-mart first, knocking with her padded elbow the forest-green, wool cap, off the gray hair of the frail lady beside her; unknowingly she has given her first Christmas gift of the season—a puffy, black-eye.
Obvs. 3: That peculiar, one-of-a-kind, “scent of yearn,” fills me like sucking a milk-chocolate baby bottle after tender sex. The scent I speak of was in the air when I approached Mc’ Donald’s. The combination of crispy grease blended with some mysterious—most likely illegal—pheromone (scientifically manufactured to trigger a famine response to those who smell it), was the scent I speak of and it ought to be banned.
Her sister was inside having, what one might think, was a chicken sandwich for lunch. She was with a group of four. It was crowded and I was excited to make our plans with her so we could leave. I sat in an empty chair adjacent to her sister’s table. One woman with stringy old hair and an electric green scarf occupied the table I sat in—a stranger. Rudely she said, “Am, I in your way!” She stood up, took her ice-cream sundae and departed quite displeased.
We left the place about ten-minutes later. I wasn’t surprised to see the stranger drive past in her large, faded blue, Chevrolet; sundae in hand, American flag tied to the car’s radio antenna, and a “United We Stand,” bill plastered on the rear window.
Conclusion: I now fully understand the “our way of life,” everybody keeps saying has been threatened. It’s right here in east central Illinois. Here, where even before September 11th George Bush was splendidly popular.
They say (not in so many words) that streaks of glitter will dart about like fireworks across the sky’s black canvas.
Carl Sagan was into studying the Cosmos. I’ve noticed his name spells Satan less one letter. Fascinating?
A shooting star in all its definitions is empirically representative of balance—the equality of nature.
For when the star’s light peaks in the sky, it is then when it fades—it dies. Like the greatest of rock and roll’s shooting stars, they peak and die. Given the visual metaphor of a shooting star (one of a multitude of visual clues nature offers), one could say that the value of a specific high is accompanied by its equal polar opposite low.
Without delving further into a laborious thesis; what this says to me is that I have two choices:
To be like shooting star, or not. To peak with overwhelming catharsis, or to meander about in an unexposed, anticlimactic, neutral hum.
The Story of Ben:
Ben is watching Oxygen channel on his pirated cable system. This, coupled with the good time he had having his hair washed and styled by Dave at Gossip City, has gotten Ben to thinking. He thinks he's beginning to enjoy women stuff. He thinks he may be becoming gay. Well, not really, not really gay. What he thinks is that he is becoming stimulated with being odd, even if he is the only one who knows what he is doing. Oxygen, estrogen, gayness; he has found a rather seductive taboo.
Ben has a theory that this is how many men (not all) eventually become homosexual—Depression, boredom, and need for breaking the norm.
At times during sex (with a woman), Ben’s partner becomes too lubricated, no friction. His thrusts become dull, flat, and pond-like. This is how Ben’s life has been lately. This exploration of things feminine, well, that’s adding some freakin’ friction. To put it bluntly, watching Oxygen TV for Ben is like a good FUCK. He finds something to tense up about.
Ben’s noticed he likes flirting with homosexual men knowing they haven’t a chance. It makes him feel like the intoxicating women he chases after. He likes the feeling of being in control of another man's cock.
Part I
How do I love the fashion women adorn today? Why, I feel as if I visit the secret panty drawer of nearly every co-ed I cross. As she sits in her generic library chair; crouched just a bit, nose deep in book, or dozing from exhaustion; Victoria, Calvin, . . . Satin, String, Lace, Silk, Cotton crawl from about her pants—her blue jeans. Just a slither—a taste. She knows, as I, that escaped—exposed for heaven's glory remains a top centimeter or two where the gentle frivoled elastic clings to her skin like ocean salt itself.
Part II
To be continued . . .
I've come to terms with the inevitable realization that in order for my existence to continue here with you as you meddle about in needless worry, fabricated goals and lofty yet, deluded plans, I must choose between two mind altering realities: heroin or meditation.
Even the writer himself could never really understand the plight of the writer. You see, once he grabs a piece of comprehension a morsel of tangible sense, it’s lost. Doubt becomes the writer’s nemesis. The place where the reader feels comfortable is paper thin. And does not the writer write for the reader? (I pose the previous question in a rhetorical circular way, to instigate frustration.)
So where do we lay? I know that you feel that same umbrella, golden freedom place, that writer’s all write about in their writing way—that painter’s paint about in their painting way.
At times I respect and visit that paper-thin trajectory reader’s read in. It reminds me of those Apollo space rockets that upon return voyage had to enter the earth's atmosphere at one certain angle lest they burn into instant ash.
With death as its ally then, there must be validity to the paper-thin, microdot layer of reality where readers of writers take comfort. Maybe that place is—the gauge—the standard. Maybe it’s the fuckin’ bar those pole-vaulters are always striving to bounce over.
And so, out of respect and a desire to avoid desperate isolation, lonely doubt, and an egocentric separation from the universal breathe (no matter how bad it suffers from halitosis); I will write as thin as the paper my reader’s find comfort in. Or maybe I just won’t.
What follows is a story by some guy:
Early this morning, the specific time escapes me, now. I can say; the sun, well, actually, those, far-off wispy clouds, they were pasted on the southeastern sky. They gathered the warm gold of the hidden sun; and they signaled morning was not too far off. These tattered shoes, these liver-spotted hands, these crusted kneecaps, they've seen a bit; but this morning, this morning I’d seen something most outrageous.
Molly, with all her zeal, she wouldn’t been so brave. She wouldn’t have been so courageous. She’d tap that tail between her shaggy legs weak like. But this little pup I'd seen skirtin' about, he was taking on two German Shepherds. "Imagine that," I says to myself. This here pup was just about nine pounds, white as an Eskimo’s polar bear and he's figtin' off two damn near wolves.
The little dog yelped at first; I suppose most any beast in that there position would succumb to fear. Soon, though . . .Quite real soon, This young pup sprung; like one of them cartoon jackrabbits; nearly thrice his height, disclosed his scrap, pointy teeth, and napped the snout of the larger of the two offending canine. He sprinted then, avoided the shepherds counter and attempted safety behind the frailness of my pail, creased legs.
‘Course now, wimpy as she was—this German hound—she wasn’t planning on forgettin’ this here little runts foray. Sure enough she hurled her 100 pounds ‘bout near my chest—paws stamped on my wind-breaker like one of them actor’s hands sunken in priceless cement. Knocked me to the pavement silly.
Margaret, if she were around; she mighta’ been spooked by all the commotion. She’d tell them dogs to quit their horsin’ and scatter away. Me, I just would smile then. I’d usually keep quit when Margaret had her way. Now, in the early days, things much were different. My fool-hearty young man fevers might have caused me to raise a hand. Not, now though. Now I would just let it pass; with short breath, just lettin’ it pass.
So when I saw sweet Margie smiling that way—standing beside, the light curled askew, there was some surprise. ‘Course hadn’t seen her, well not counting visits to the stone, near now eight years. And I didn’t feel to bad when the dogs played on a bit escaping my view. Felt much like morphine—lettin’ it pass, lettin’ it pass.
In no way do I suggest that these attacks were not terrible. In no way do I suggest that these attacks were not tragic. I steadfastly agree of the terribleness of the events of 9-11 and can not for one second insinuate that they were anything less than tragic. . . but “terrible tragedy?”
The question begs, what exactly is a “terrible tragedy?” Is there such thing as a “not-so-terrible,” tragedy? What criteria do we use to gauge the severity of a tragedy? Where is the line drawn? If an autoworker loses a finger on an assembly line is this a “minor” tragedy? If a family of four loses only one of their two children in a car accident is this an “average” tragedy? Seriously, how could an entire nation, its leaders, and most importantly its television media use such an oxymoronic phrase and not even question the silliness of it? Clearly a tragedy is a tragedy. I’ve racked my brain diligently to find one example of a tragedy, either imagined or real, that isn’t or wasn’t terrible. Does such an event exist?
My attempt here is not to nit-pick, poke fun, or make light of the pain many suffered and still suffer because of the awful loss of life. In fact, I write because of that very horror. Well-meaning individuals describe the events of September 11th as a “terrible tragedy,” completely unaware of the bandwagon sympathy train they’ve boarded. Such word usage highlights glaringly the media’s lack of respect, patience, and concern. As quickly as it takes to make a bowl of instant oats, the press defines, categorizes, and subsequently desensitizes, the most prolific event in modern history with a word phrase that doesn’t even make sense. Quick, easy, painless—no longer is the truth of the destruction real. It heartlessly becomes just a “terrible tragedy,” a thing, like anything else.
Could the television media be so creatively handicapped that “terrible tragedy” is all they got? How ‘bout a “catastrophe,” here or there or a phrase like, “September 11th monstrosities?” Maybe call it a “devastating event,” or a “horrible circumstance.”
Have we become so accepting and weak that out of sheer laziness we merely repeat what everyone else says like drones? What confidence can we have in reporters, politicians, and leaders, who seem so detached from themselves they can not describe, or even get in touch with the true horrific, depressing, soul-searching attacks on love, life, freedom, and humanity that transpired in this country? To me, I see these types as unintelligible mindless as bunch of army ants. I can’t stop picturing these “army-ants” scrambling for shelter—their anthill destroyed by a toddler’s toy shovel, finding little solace but to spit sound bites like a featherweight does teeth.
And that’s a terrible tragedy! ;)