First of all, I am sorry. I did not have the place, or mind to make that decision. It had been a long day. We had run a series of errands, for ourselves and in conjunction for you. Sure, we were just hanging outside on your back porch, shooting the shit and enjoying the beer. You have always been so kind to share your beer with us, and your kindness is proportionally heightened by our knowledge of the price of some of this beer. One should know we were not drinking Pabst or some cheap lager. We were drinking bottles of IPA that were over ten dollars. And to be honest, you probably have more worthy respect and love for that beer.

That bottle of Maharaja was nearly empty. It was at the last littlest bit. That 10% that when we were in middle school, kids assured me was 100% backwash at that point. But at least it was good backwash. And to be fair, I did ask you if it was okay that I poured the last bit out for “the homies who couldn’t be here today,” and you nodded in approval. And when I poured the bottle empty, there was a bit more than we thought. It wasn’t backwash. We could see the deliciousness falling onto the spring grass of your backyard.

And you immediately repented. As did I.

You said “I really wish I still had that. That was a huge mistake. I think I can still taste it.” Yes, it was a huge mistake. Wasting any part of that delicious Avery ale is a sin against beer, against brewing, something we both adore. My girlfriend sat there laughing at the unfortunate situation unfolding. I sensed then I was beholden to you. This may have been because I was high. We were all high. Very high. I never get that high these days. We never get high together, or at all. So in some small way, I can deflect the blame to drugs. But this doesn’t remove that tension between us, which was no longer exclusively sexual.

This was in the spring. I spent all summer wandering Europe, for the express purpose of soul searching in this matter. How could I repay you? A man of your stature may express his forgiveness, but is kind enough (you are kind,) to not verbalize any sort of ill will you may have towards me or my vain tendencies. I sat on trains, contemplating for days, weighing my mistake. I then weighed a second weight against the grave truth laying behind that first weight. And that second weight was that ultimately, it was not my beer. And the way you reacted was the way you truly felt. And all I had accomplished by wasting such deliciousness was a brief fleeting laugh at the absurdity of someone like myself actually having “homies,” much less “homies who couldn’t be here today.” I still can see the beer seeping into the ground, wasting away into mother earth. I delved into a deep and unreachable depression. I slept on streets. I asked for change for small slices of bread and cheese in order to survive. I performed sexual acts on strangers as a way of coping with my despair. There is a small gerbil running somewhere inside my small intestine, now a small, surprising reminder of the damage I had done. No favor or gift could repay the hurt I had done to you. And when I was being beaten by those Italian politicians in that hotel room, two hundred volts of electricity running through my body, a dirty sock stuffed in my mouth, I realized something. I never truly apologized to you. I never said I was sorry. This was also likely because I was high. I get nervous when I’m high.

So you asked me to write a thousands words before you could forgive me. So, is this a thousand words? I keep on losing track when I am counting. It’s not? Well then, it may be in your best interest to expect another letter.

I.

The spring of 2015 is when Emma and I will meet. It will be at Elton John’s Oscar party. Emma will be cavorting with a group of her friends, one of them nominated and winning Best Supporting Actress. It will shock the world. Their group will trot about with Emma being dragged around. The friend wields the statuette like an axe and gets her photo taken. Emma will be trying to quell her jealous feelings. She will believe she is bored. I, who will not be working in Hollywood, but will know many of the powerful figures in the industry, will be sitting with my good friend Robert DeNiro and what will be left of his inner circle. I will be drinking a whisky sour, as I will have rejected clear liquor at this point in my life. Emma will be wearing a svelte black cocktail dress, her breasts accentuated by the firmness of the fabric. She will be drinking chardonnay. She will be trying now, at this important junction of her young career, to be considered not merely a beautiful young movie star, but rather a beautiful actress. She will be fighting for the role in the next Neil Simon adaptation, playing a tortured young transvestite, coming to grips with her fathers recent suicide, which or may not have been about her characters sexual identification. She is hoping she will be the one carrying a statuette at this time next year. As of the spring of 2015, she will have been considered a shiny piece of meat, bombarded with stiff drinks and high compliments in routine attempts to get into her pants. She wouldn’t mind meeting a more serious man, a creative man, who could assist in her elevation into a more respected level. Plus the boys, the parties, and unfortunately, the drugs, do not seem to be filling the empty gaps in her existence.

The Best Supporting Actress winner will burst into the conversation at our table, which is not uncommon considering the self-complimenting nature of the Oscars. As the Best Supporting Actress winner interrupts Bob’s anecdote about waking up with Peter Lorre and missing a digit on his hand, I will gaze off into the chandeliers, and exhale my cigarette wistfully. I will be satisfied with my decision to distance myself from Hollywood, but also happy to be able to visit; to remind myself of the fortunes in my own life. I will think of one of my cats, a stray I picked up and named Crayon, and imagine what he must be doing at that future date. After the Best Supporting Actress winner leaves to go on enjoying the highest point in her career, Emma will stay behind to catch up with Bob, good friends from their recent remake of Pearl Harbor, in which Emma reprised the role portrayed by the recent Kate Beckinsale and Bob playing the role of FDR. The film will be met with near universal acclaim, and will be nominated for multiple awards to be handed out this very evening.

And as she kisses Bob on his wrinkly cheek and turns to leave, she will notice me, in the corner, still looking off wistfully and meaningfully, and think to herself “My god? Who is that stunning creature?” However, the Best Supporting Actress winner will pull Emma away, and she will look over her shoulder three times, trying to capture a mental image of my frame for later, when she will approach me, a when she will not know. I will notice her ogling me. I will always be fond of prime numbers.

Emma will approach me seventeen minutes later, as I get up to stretch my legs and retrieve a handful of drinks for myself. She will swear later, many months later, during an intimate moment in bed, that she could see into my soul at that moment, when our eyes first met.

And she will say that what she saw was a gentle, brave and lovely man, one that she may very well love forever.

And she will be half-right. She will have seen into my soul. But, from my perspective, at that moment, our eyes did not meet. My eyes will have been following a curvy young caterer’s frame, and my mind will be planning out what gratuitous thing I will say to her to her in twenty-three minutes to coerce her into coming into the walk-in freezer with me to engage in coitus against the vegetable counters, with a chair propped under the wide door handles. The caterer will not want to lose her job over a spontaneous fling, but she will find my charm irresistible, and her supervisor will later find dollops of tomatoes all along the floors of the freezer. Such is the rollercoaster of life.

To my future surprise, when Emma will approach me, the very first thing she says will be “Just what do you think you’re looking at?” in a wispy, overtly sexual voice. And my mind will mentally scramble, thinking maybe she is hitting on me, or maybe she noticed my stealth-like leering, but my face won’t show this debate. I will take a gamble. “You, beautiful.” She will smile; flashing her gums and running her tongue across her front teeth, quickly and tempestuously, narrowing her eyes.

“Can I get you a drink?”

II.

About a month or so into our relationship, I won’t be able to ascertain for sure in the future- as my conception of time will be completely warped from an incident in which a young man, who I exchanged unkind words with, will stab me in the temporal lobe with a salad fork- I will take Emma to the opera.

My third novel, Time, and Its Death (A Vacuum, A Seal, A Corset), will have just been published, and the media storm will be in full swing. The critical consensus will be divided- it’s wide lyrical scope will be interpreted as a cruel joke on readers. The characters, each one killed and resurrected as one of the other characters, and then killed and resurrected as one of the more obscure Muppets will be considered one of the great metaphors in art for the oneness of humanity, although it will remain altogether very beguiling to readers. The New York Times Book Review will say like “Rosencrantz and Gildenstern if Stoppard did brown-brown and went on vision quests.” In private circles, most critics will admit adoring the lyrical prose paired with the unflinching sparseness of the third-person descriptions. They will also admit, to publishing their negative reviews in complicity with the future conspiracy that will be paid by my publishers to further publicity for the work. The majority of the critics will also admit to not having even finished the 4,498 pages that will comprise the work, much less parsing the introduction. This will not be due to a lack of understanding, but due to a disabling amount of patience, not wanting to waste the joyful experience of reading due to some asshole editor’s deadline.

I will be taking Emma to the opera to lift her spirits. The day before she will have lost out on the part in the Simon adaptation to Abigail Breslin, that snotty little bitch, we will agree. The opera date is a surprise. She thinks that Elektra is her favorite, but it is truly mine, and convinced her that it is hers. I will personally feel, yet of course will not communicate to Emma, that Breslin isn’t just better for the part, but a better looking person, and actress, if not person, in sum. I will not able for sure to ascertain that final fact for a few months, as I will not be able to return Breslin’s frantic and steamy voicemails in a timely fashion. Emma will be attached to my hip, against my will, since we meet. I haven’t decided how I feel about her company, outside of the sex.

Our seats will be in the sixth row, in the center of the aisle. During the opera, she lean into my shoulder, and firmly nuzzle into place there, and I will smile. A few times, Emma will pet my bicep or begin to kiss the fabric on my forearm, and I will casually shoo her away, and will quietly communicate to her that she is distracting me from enjoying the show to its fullest. It will be a rare thing to see James Gandolfini and Michael Cera perform opera together.

During the second hour of the performance, she will take a tactile attempt to fellate me. I will push her away, bit-lip red with embarrassment and march out of the show, my head slung low, trying to avoid a scene. Emma will follow, holding her evening gown up, so not to trip or sully the fabric, and whisper-yell to me to get my attention, so she can apologize properly. I will ignore her and continue marching.
Prince William will notice we are beginning to make a scene, the who’s-who of the crowd will point and look at us as we leave, and the Prince will stand up to assuage me, he will know how short my temper can be, and his face will look indignant. I will wave him off, and he will slowly sit back down, making the phone-hand with his thumb and pinky, mouthing for me to call him when I get the chance. I will try not to roll my eyes, and I nod at him in acknowledgment.

Emma will apologize profusely, explaining that she just wanted to show me how much I meant to her, and what she would do for me, without my asking, and how it didn’t matter who saw, she just wanted to do it, she wanted the whole world to know how passionately she felt for me, so why not now. I will tell her first that I love her, and that I appreciate the gesture, but she needed to understand that I did care who saw. She will nod knowingly, and I will wipe a single tear from her eye. She will buy me two beers from a tavern a few blocks away and I allow her to fellate me in the taxi on the way back to my west side loft.

So is life.

III.

Against my initial wishes, during the summer of 2015, Emma will move into my house in the Pacific Northwest. My spare room, a space previously designated for nomads, jilted lovers, vengeance-seeking lovers, wandering animals, and close friends to sleep in, will be taken over by her collection of rare and antique stuffed animals and the pile of fan mail she has received over the course of her career.

This will became her sort of ‘safe place’ during the times that I will upset her, which will be often, considering life-style choices and living situation when she will move in. I will not have revealed to her that I chop wood in the living room while I am asleep, and also awake, completely dependant on the events of my dreams or the fluctuations of my mood, something a medical professional will diagnose as ‘schizophrenic’ in 2021. I will also then be staging my undisciplined creative endeavor of recreating Fellini Satryicon with a group of elderly Philippino women who speak no English, and had only seen the bizarre source material once, on a small television set with no sound on. The point, and quality of this work will be grasped by very few, deservedly.

Unfortunately for Emma, sweet patient Emma, this stage of our relationship will coincide with the first peak of my infamous addiction to morphine of 2014-2017, something I will have kept under wraps pretty well I imagine. However I will need her to bathe me, change me and provide me with my limited nutrition, which will consist of saltines with feta cheese, bananas, airline peanuts and brown rice. I will see this as one of the few ‘upsides’ of her moving in – that I could release Henrietta, my Swedish nurse and save a few dollars. I will be suspicious that was stealing from me. Upon opening her coffin my suspicions will be confirmed.

One of the ‘upsides’ for Emma will be that she will not be present for the famous morphine addiction of 2021-2024, which will prove to be fatal, albeit temporarily.

And when she is upset, and in her ‘safe place,’ she will read the fan mail, and remember when she was young and nubile, and unconditionally loved. She will feel small against the crushing tidal wave of the adult world, and feel she cannot handle it. And in the moments when she hates me to the very core, and whenever I am coherent and sober enough to stand up and take care of myself, I will present her with an ice mocha latte, a Star magazine and a container of JuJuBee’s; her three favorites. I’ll remind her that I love her, and that I am completely dependent on her, and without her, my work, integral to the future of art, and culture itself, would be lost.

IV.

In the fall of 2015, I will pack my things, and leave for my winter retreat, with my partner in creative expression, Sir Richard Van Diesendorg and his alluring mute wife Purra. It will become our annual tradition to stay at my cabin, in an undisclosed location, and brainstorm potential future accomplishments. Emma, understandably, will not be invited, and I will impolitely inform her of this fact minutes before we leave the house. The preceding days will have been my detox from a three week cocaine-orgy-meth binge. I will be a little on edge and still unable to feel my left hand. Emma will be beginning to move her bags from our room when I tell her. She will cry, and I will explain to her that I need someone, someone important, to watch over my four beloved cats – Crayon, Fernando, Albert and the newest addition to the family Xxyuog, whom Purra playfully named.

I will explain that if I feel they are in danger or unsafe in any way whatsoever, it will comprise the integrity of my fragile creative mind. She will not understand why we can’t just hire a nanny, or ask the neighbors to come over, what with my unending funds and countless friends, why does Emma need to watch over the cats? She will be completely right. My assertion will make zero sense. But I however, will become oblivious to common sense, as additional side effect from the salad fork incident, immortalized in an SNL sketch.

She will say she wants to be with me, that she wants to watch my genius unfold. I will be understandably flattered, and even briefly consider allowing her to come. Then I will remember that she will more than likely see Purra and I engaged in some unimaginably fantastic gymnastic-like coitus, where I am practically pounding Purra into the fucking ceiling, and that may upset Emma and infuriate her with jealously. I will not want to upset her. I will care about her. I will love her after all. I will sigh and look down at the marble floor, and I will feel a pain in my huge loving heart, enlarged from years of chronic alcoholism and loving too much. I will feel that small segment tear.
“Em,” I will say “This just isn’t the year. The Guggenheim is all up my ass for something bold and exciting, and I gotta deliver. Next year for sure.” And we will deliver. The art world will be shattered when “The Great Pantomime” is first exhibited in Dubai. It will be a 50m installation art piece. It will consist of Richard, Purra’s and yours trulys own vomit and bile from the substance binging during the winter brainstorm, and said vomit will be poured upon a bed of hardcore Turkish pornography and white roses, with the center of the piece being a recreation of Michelangelo’s “David” constituted from cigarette butts and whittlings of squirrels that Richard will be just banging out like every five minutes.

Emma will nod and tears will trickle down her face. I’ll place my thick, tan hands on her thin, beautiful neck and pull her close to me. I will then lick the side of her face, catching some of the tears, with my big pulpy tongue, leaving a trail of saliva embedded with hash resin and bits of brown rice upon her plump, lovely cheek.

“I love you Emma Watson,” I will say. And she will hug me tight, and weep into my chest, muttering nearly incomprehensibly “I understand, go, I understand.”

Crayon will be looking up at us, confused and curious, and will then roll on his , flicking his fat furry tail, playful and lovely, alive and incandescent.

V.
In the spring of 2016, the paparazzo’s fury will reach its peak. At the time of this hoopla, I will be 28 and she 24. The American and British media will theorize that Emma will be the one to tame my wild spirit, or what is reported of it. As time goes on there will be less and less that is dangerous or wildly ascetically experimental for me to engage in, and my known romantic qualities would be due to dominate my needs. And a strong beautiful woman, which Emma surely is, they will say, would ground my life in the best of ways. ‘Why cannot one make convention and tradition dangerous?’ they will say. They will say I am the only man with the potential to do it.

And I will be tamed. I will immerse myself in a life of purity and restraint, under a self-designed monastic discipline. I will abstain from illicit substances, meat, all preservatives and additives, all forms of cheese, socks, television and sexual climax. This last constraint will frustrate Emma immensely, as her principal joy in life will have become my sexual satisfaction. She will find methods of relieving this frustration, dabbling in haiku and skeet shooting, enjoying the meditative qualities of creative composition and the jolt of a rifle against her shoulder. The force will be quite thrilling, feeling a wave of release when hearing the clang and shatter of the clay pigeons.

The media’s central question, after they’ve realized my new dogmatic lifestyle is not temporary, will surround the concept of us marrying; a subject Emma will have never brought up verbally, but will be of evidential stress in her facial patterns and body language, whenever hinted at in social situations. When I see her skin tense up, and her shoulders go rigid, pushing out her breasts – I realize I would be more than happy to enter a binding written partnership contract with her for an indefinite period of time.

I will propose to Emma in the fall, at the previously-secret cabin, and will begrudgingly revise my final constraint, to offer her an avenue of happiness. She will bound up and down, throw her arms around my neck, and wrap her legs around my waist, saying yes, a thousand times yes, a million times yes.

The marriage will mark a new era in her career, she will be offered roles usually only reserved for the Charlize-Theron, Mary-Kate-Olsen or Abigail-Breslin type actress. She will star in the long-troubled Janis Joplin biopic and pick up her long awaited golden statuette, and pick up a second one for her portrayal of Amelia Earhart’s disfigured lesbian lover in the Earhart biopic. She will even receive offers to direct.

However, for myself, the road will not be paved so well. I will complete my directorial debut, The Prior Engagment, which will concern the plight of a fictional Haitian poet, and his phobia of the sun and physical contact, and will receive stunning reviews and bring in another small fortune for my Swiss Bank account. After its release I will begin another personal downward spiral. Whilst at work on my fourth novel, a book with no characters, no discernabe plot, and page upon page of childish-doodles of stick figures fighting battles with tanks, planes and shark-machetes, I will relapse on morphine.

After three months of full-bore abuse, with no sleeping or eating anything beyond saltines, I will be found catatonic in my office and hospitalized. Emma will be away on the shoot for the highly anticipated Pearl Harbor II, and will be frustrated beyond all understandable words that no one in my inner circle had the nerve to call her and tell her about my descent. However, this will not be their fault, as I will have crafted legal-contracts, signed in blood, with their promise not to divulge any of the information regarding my lifestyle choices while she was away. And I will also have threatened to kill them on the off-chance that they decide to break the contracts.

I will remain hospitalized during the Christmas of 2016, and she will keep vigil, having taken a vow of silence and dressed entirely in black. She will wait, for her love to return to her. As time will wear on, she will become more and more frustrated with my unresponsive self. She will think to herself “Why? Why would my lovely James do such self-destructive things, with such talent, with so many lovely people surrounding him?” She will stand up at this point in her thoughts, words hear and there will be spoken aloud “Why did I devote myself to such a man, who after these two years still treats me like a rotten kid, who ignores me, cheats on me, borderline tortures me, and all for what? WHAT?” She will climb on top of my virtually-lifeless body and begin to pound my chest viciously. The nurses will at first move in to stop her, but will understand, and let her continue, “I wish, I wish, that I never spoke to him at that party, I wish I never tolerated all his behavior, I wish that James Case had never been born!” and she will slap me in the face. And my head will slowly turn, brought back to life and look her straight in the eyes. There will be an endless sorrow behind them, needing her. And she will know this. And her questions will be answered.

And she will smile. It will be an hour shy of midnight on New Years Eve. She will smile, and she will cry, and she will tell me that she missed me, and I will apologize, and say I will never do another drug again, and that I love her, and a priest will then enter our room, and perform the ceremony as I lay in bed, unable to stand from the protein deposits in my knees. The MS patient I will share the room with and one of the nurses will act as the witnesses. And Emma will be happy. And after she sees my body return to life, she will have forgotten all of her protests, all her complaints, because my living presence will wash her mind clean.

She will exclaim that she’s never been happier, and that she loves me, endlessly.

And “I know,” will be my reply, as the nurses leave after we take our vows.

You wave me down
like a sore tiger.
Everything stretches, and the dark
becomes seeable.
When I was just a kid, I would fight you.
I’d exhaust every avenue to escape you,
To deplete you, hidden with my night.
I would wish you would just give up.
And you would.
Now
I’m pleased to meet you.
Even when you come uninvited, knocking on the inside.
You will rust half my gears, in the afternoon sun.
I will spend more time with you than anything else in my entire life.
You are a light under a long blanket.
You show a true figure, a full face:
of what was once a shapeless phantom;
of what I had long hidden from myself.
A pendulum swinging to both sides;
Awake and humming. You take long strides as you
fold away the distance on the map
that I lay out on my bedroom floor.

I opened the New York Times Business section today, and saw an article on Kindle increasing readership. Amazon states that people buy 3.1 as many books as they did before owning the device. It would seem that the Kindle is increasing peoples desires to read, which most people would call a good thing. This is a bit deceiving. The fact of the matter is, is that Kindles are more or less for people interested in owning a gadget, then they are in reading. Otherwise they would see that the Kindle is pretty much unnecessary.

It is obvious that someone would read more once they bought a Kindle. Someone would also listen to more music after they bought an iPod. If one were to not use it, why would one spend an asinine amount of money on something one wouldn’t use? Wouldn’t one have already realized they wasted $250 on a glowing book with a battery? It seems people forgot reading is free if you just go to the library and have some patience.

I read an article recently that detailed a young girl who downloaded the Twilight series onto her Kindle, and the library reporting that the availability of digital books may just save the institution. The fact is that on demand television, movies, music and books makes people uninterested and flippant if they cannot get access to anything in the world immediately. I can see the demand system working for movies, television and music. Those three things can mostly have a time limit of two hours, and you can generally do other tasks while listening/watching. The benefit for such short-term culture is evident. But a book? What plausible reason is there for needing a book or article immediately? This makes me contemplate what kind of relationship people engage in with books.

I do not understand what sort of advantage a Kindle can offer, aside from convenience. I don’t see why someone could not wait an hour or a day to find a magazine article or a novel. You can’t physically write in the margins, dog-ear a page, throw it across the room if you disagreed (well you could, but unlikely,) or glance at what a stranger is reading. It is engaging and promising to see what someone is reading. It can start a friendship or a romance. Sherman Alexie discussed. the idea of digitized cover art on the back of a digital reader, which besides looking cool, would be pretty awesome.

And this is the one nefarious advantage I can see with a Kindle, is that nobody can tell what you are reading, unless you asked them. I was speaking to a friend about this, and she mentioned that she met a woman with a Kindle and thought it was wonderful. I told her I am pretty sure it is a modern conveience, designed so people don’t have to embarassed about the low-quality books they are reading. She told me she in fact asked what they were reading?

“So which Dan Brown book was it?” I asked. She burst out laughing.

“How’d you know?”

What the reported increased in readership isn’t stating is what the people are actually reading. Take a look at the Kindle Store Best Seller List. The highest placer that I could comfortably call literature is Sherlock Holmes at #29, which i could surmise may have something to do with the upcoming feature-film starring Robert Downey Jr. Machiavelli’s “The Prince” follows immediately after and somewhere farther down is Uncle Tom’s Cabin. But no high-brow challenging stuff. I don’t really expect that, as much as I would expect it to place on the New York Times physical best-seller list. The Kindle wants you to continue buying books, they don’t give half-a-shit if it has a shred of cultural merit.

The fact is that Amazon and the entire publishing industry is ultimately a business. Thus, the Kindle reader perpetuates the problem of the modern reader. That it is now an act of consumption and the majority of our society has begun to regard reading as entertainment or fun. This may sound awful, but the books truly worth reading, initially aren’t enjoyable. It is very tempting to quit. The brain, or more specifically the part of the brain dealing with reading comprehension, is a muscle. It must work and sweat to expand. Otherwise it will be languish and weaken. Good reading really is work. I don’t want to read some of the books I should read, but I am always thankful I put my shoulders down and read it. The lessons learned in these books come up in life on a near-daily basis.

This problem doesn’t plague the modern music buff, as there is a cavalcade of alternative and indie music surrounding you. The art-house theaters and film critics have plenty of auteurs making quality films. However this may be a disadvantage of the medium of books; they take more time and effort to absorb. You have to think.

But sometimes people want to read when they don’t want to think. It is perfectly understandable to have trashy books around the house to kill time. But this is no excuse to ignore challenging work. Dave Eggers published a pretty sharp discussion on this in an introduction to the 10th anniversary edition of the meta-challenging masterpiece “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace. It proposes the duty of the modern reader, whether or not we must read this ambitious and challenging work. It is an interesting question, likely to be probed at a later date, considering Foster Wallace’s suicide last September. It is also interesting to note that Foster Wallace implores the reader through an AA group to continue “Coming Back” and to “Not Give Up.” It becomes somewhat clear that Foster Wallace is talking to the reader and not the characters. He knows what he is doing is difficult and it is tempting to quit.

The reason that books only come out on the beach, or an a Sunday afternoon when you have jack-shit to do, is because reading has been nominalized into a form of sensed obligation. Thanks to the remants of a cultural instinct that one should read. people are still compelled to put on their New Years Resolution’s to “read more.” People should read more. However reading today is often something that is basically flipping pages of simplpe prose, as an apparently productive way to pass the time. This is a pacification of this instinct. It is the easy way out. And like most shortcuts, easy reading can be detrimental; consider this Einstein quote “Reading, after a certain age, diverts the mind too much from its creative pursuits. Any man who reads too much and uses his own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking.” I imagine that Einstein is referring to reading as entertainment, that serves as a distraction rather than a stimulant. And if one, thanks to the Kindle, has the ability to disguise what they are reading, then the deserved embarrassment will dissipate. People will just read more crap, and think they are doing their part as a cultured adult.

It may be easy to pass me off as old fashioned or that I have a high standard when it comes to reading. Both may be true. But I am happier with a higher standard, regardless of whatever personal disapointment follows. The high standard comes with a proportional level of enjoyment. If you know a lot about any certain subject, whether combustion or Russian novels, you appreciate well-crafted work on a higher level when you see it. The idea of “serious” and “easy” reading is about as senseless and pretentious as it gets, but it necessary for distinctions. But one should not confuse the pretensions of a distinction, with the perceived pretension of a work. Most “serious” writing I read is about as unpretentious and mundane as it gets. It can even be fun.

I am an optimistic person. I hope that the Kindle will motivate people into reading more. But to a further extent, I hope that reading more realizes what truly turgid shit they are reading sometimes. I hope it gets people to explore the world of contemporary and classic fiction. If you are a person who is in need of a spark to remember why good books make your life a better thing, I highly recommend “The Uncommon Reader” by Alan Bennett. You can read it in an hour, and it will rekindle your faith in reading (pun intended). But if the Kindle also provides a framework of thinking where reading should be easy and entertaining, it will likely take something external for someone to make that jump, much less if their scope of reading is limited to suggestions by Amazon. It will be a truly happy day when I see someone reading Mann or Gaddis on their Kindle. I mean when I have to ask them.

But please, if you want to read more, consider buying a lamp and a nice chair before buying a Kindle. It’s a lot cheaper and a lot more practical.

Travel Journal

During this past summer I traveled in Greece and the Balkans with two friends of mine. As per my contract in school, I wrote an extensive travel journal of my experiences.

The above links to a PDF file, however you must click on Read Full Post in order to see the link.

Enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Also, expect more non-travel related postings soonish.

Thousands of Americans Shocked to Discover That They Are in Gay Marriages

All over the country, more and more married couples have begun to realize they have already committed to a gay marriage. With the ongoing controversy surrounding the issue of granting homosexuals marriage rights, thousands of heterosexual couples, who have been married for years, have discovered that their marriages, are in fact, pretty gay.

Clint Barstow of Topeka, Kansas, who has been married to his wife Cheryl for ten years, at first didn’t believe his marriage could be gay. The declining regularity and excitement of their sex life was an early symptom of problems. Barstow merely thought of it as a common trend in marriage. But when the violent arguments and eventual affairs with other heterosexuals started, it finished off any sort of potential straightness for their marriage.

The Barstow’s publicly acknowledge that their marriage only exists for the sake of their son Kenny, who is aware of both of his parents dating lives. “I guess it took me until this point, to say out loud, that this marriage is gay, this shit is pretty weak” Barstow stated. He then implied he was pursuing a divorce, despite the fact that he is a lifelong Catholic. “Yes, divorce goes against the church. But at least it isn’t gay.”

In Tallahassee, Michelle Fairfield awoke one morning realizing she was in a gay marriage. “We hardly ever talk, and when we do we just talk about paying the bills and taking the kids to soccer practice, you know pretty gay stuff. If we ever talk about something personal, like say Mark’s mother, he gets defensive and whiny and we get into a fight. It’s really gay not having a conversation with your husband.”

Fairfield works during the day as a legal consultant, and Mark stays home to tend to the house and kids. Last February, Fairfield came home during lunch to find her husband drinking heavily with friends. This was the first time the idea flashed in her mind that she could be in a gay marriage.

“You know, you always hope for the best, but usually the simplest explanation is usually the right one.” Her suspicions were confirmed when for her birthday, he gave her a power drill and a nude photo of himself with a coy caption reading “Jus’ Wanted to Drill You.”

“That’s when I knew for sure,” Fairbanks said, dabbing at her eyes “That this was a gay marriage.”

Since realizing the gayness of her marriage, Fairfield founded the Gay Marriage Crisis Center, a place for couples to discuss the pain and reality of being in a gay marriage. “It is a talk therapy center, so people, stuck in gay marriages, realize they are not alone. You are not the only ones. Thousands of couples every month are realizing how gay being married is.”

However, there is another threat to the foundation of marriage. As each day passes, the fight for homosexual marriage equality becomes stronger. And many heterosexual couples are worried that these potential unions could end as gay marriages.

“Our primary concern is the next generation of married couples. The number of long-term homosexual couples who will be allowed to finally become married is huge, and we don’t want them to end up in gay marriages. They don’t know what marriage can do to an otherwise normal relationship. It can get gay so fast, you wouldn’t even believe it.”

“I’m just afraid,” Barstow says “That more and more people are going to realize they are in gay marriages, whether it’s a homosexual couple or a heterosexual couple. And if people realize that marriage may be a gay thing altogether…well that sounds pretty gay to me.”

A woman holds a human skull in her hands. She sits with a group of students in a circle of tables. She alternates which hand holds the skull, playfully moving it between the two like a tennis ball, even spinning it in the air at one point like a ball. She catches it. She hands the stage prop around for us to examine. The color is too bright. The skull looks too light. There are no imperfections.  There is a piece of plastic bound to the back of the skull. The jaw opens and closes, there is a click. This is not a real skull. But it is a skull. It’s a sunny day. She is writing something about skulls. She has been criticized.

The skull comes to a young man, he sits near the end of the circle. A person in the class appears particularly preoccupied by the presence. One could say bothered. She sits next to the young man. He watches her in his periphery as he fiddles with the skull. She recoils when he makes the jaw pop. He wants to tell her that it’s okay, that it won’t bite. But class isn’t the place to sooth someone’s irrational feelings. He hands the skull to her.

When she receives the skull her hands moves up, she anticipated it being heavier. She anticipated it to feel like her skull, without the muscles and blood and veins and brains. Like hers, but lighter. But it isn’t a real skull. It’s just a skull. She comes around to the notion of holding a prop skull. A smile escapes at one point; she may even be enjoying herself. The young man had anticipated that she wouldn’t even want to hold it, and would yield her turn with the skull. So much for what one anticipates.

The first woman tells the class about a Polish pianist who wanted his own skull to be used in Hamlet. The class is shocked. The young man finds it interesting. Who cares what happens to your skull when you’re dead? Isn’t this man living the dream? To continue living once one has died? Anyway, there were complications. It wasn’t so simple as to whether or not they could use the skull. The question of the audience arose. Does one tell the audience that it is a real human skull? And not just a skull? But that wasn’t the primary concern. They didn’t want to detract publicity away from the guy from Dr. Who. Please fill out the following questionnaire:

There are two productions of the Royal Shakespeare Company next door to each other. One stands there with one’s hypothetical date, after having consumed a hypothetical romantic dinner. Both productions are of Hamlet.  Does one:

1) Attend the performance of Hamlet starring the actor from Dr. Who who has received unanimously positive critical reviews or does one

2) Attend the performance of Hamlet that utilizes the actor from Dr. Who as well as a 25-year-old real human skull that has been sitting in a box until now, until tonight, when it will be held by another real human being, and it is a secret kept from the audience, except for one, obviously and lastly

3) How can one tell the difference?

Thank you for the interest in our questionnaire.

One sits down. One’s date goes to the bathroom. One’s date returns and sits down next to one. The curtain comes up. The gravedigger scene arrives. There is a skull. There is also potentially a real human skull.  The scene passes. The play continues on. It ends. Both audiences are uniformly convinced that theirs is the one with the real human skull. And not just a skull.

The second woman in class is still the holding the skull. She is nearly done examining it. She has safely concluded for herself that it isn’t a real human skull. It’s just a skull.

The first woman from class speaks up. She has been lying to us. It isn’t just a skull. It is actually a real human skull. And we have all been touching it. Real human remains.  People start screaming. People hurl indignant insults, and claim personal vendettas against the first woman. One woman flips over a table and sets it on fire punching her chest and screaming with her throat clicking. Lawsuits are promised. Limbs will be mutilated. Some people calm down. The first woman begins to speak again. She has been lying to us again. It isn’t a real human skull. It’s just a skull. People look confused. People look indignant. People still seem upset. Most seemed relieved. The woman who started the fire politely puts it out. She hopes nobody reports her. The young man and the second woman are still sitting next to each other, examining the skull, hardly noticing the carnival. Because it’s not a real human skull. It’s just a skull.

We know what we believe. And we believe what we know.

The boy sits in the passenger seat. The belt runs across his neck. The summer sun cascades through the windshield and his window is rolled down. He squints at the words on the page. They shine on the white sheet.

His mother opens the hatchback, and lugs the paper sacks filled with groceries into the back. She climbs into the drivers seat and with her index finger, props her glasses close to her face. The chocolate brown interior makes the car feel warmer. She rolls down her window, and asks the boy to roll down the ones in the back. He clambers back and reaches for the rollers, inching forwards when the rotation demands. The boy sinks back into his seat. His mother is holding a chocolate bar in front of him.

-That’s for being patient. She rubs his head like a dog when she says it. The boy smiles. He takes the chocolate bar and strips off the wrapper and lets it fall to the floor. The entire bar is in his hands, hands unprotected from melting chocolate. Soon his fingers are a smeared brown. His mother shakes her head and smiles, making him promise to clean himself before he returns to the book.

She pulls her jacket from the back of the car, and begins to pick through her collection of used-wadded-up-tissues, searching for a proper one to give to the boy. Even though it’s hot, she still has her jacket with her. Dressing down only happens under desirable circumstances. She hands him a napkin. The boy wipes his fingers clean, and then thoroughly licks the remaining melted chocolate off, wiping his damp fingers off on the car seat and then his pants.

He goes back to the story. He reads the sentences out loud, pronouncing the string of words with an adult’s temperance. He seems so big for his age. They climb the hill and arrive at a stoplight. His mother lights a cigarette, a menthol, long and thin, and tosses the match out the window. The boy struggles with a word, his mispronounces it. His mother corrects him.

-You’re saying it like “Frisbee.” The first syllable is the first three letters.

-Oh.

-Do you know what that word means? she asks. She exhales a plume of smoke and tilts her head towards the boy. He shakes his head and squints at the glove-box.

-It means to distinguish, to understand something.

-Okay.

-Well then also it can mean that you understand something compared to something else, something a lot like it. Something so close to it that you can hardly tell the difference. Follow?

-Uh-huh.

-But no matter how close it may be to it, if you really understand it, then you can always tell the difference, you can determine which one is which.

-Okay

-Do you want to give me an example if you’re feeling up to it?

The boy thinks. They make eye contact, and he opens his mouth to say something, but pauses. He closes his mouth and starts to look out the window.

-Think about something you really like. That’ll help, she says.

He looks out the window a bit more.

-Baseball, he says.

She slides the burning cone out of the cigarette and closes the ashtray to let it burn out.

-Baseball is good. What’s your idea, I’ll help.

-That’s okay I already got it. When we watch the Cubs, he pauses dull, combing his tongue for the right combination. When we watch the Cubs, he continues, I always know where they are playing, even if I don’t remember at first. If there’s no ivy on the wall, it’s not Wrigley. And if there is ivy on the wall, it is Wrigley.

She smiles broadly and rubs his head, like a dog. His smile comes in through the clofts of hair, and her forearm and hand obstructing the view of his face.

-That’s my boy. You sure are going to discern yourself from the rest of the kids in your class. That’s a good way to remember, “there will be a discernable distance between you and the other kids.” You’re a smart boy.

She sips at her lime soda. It’s grown flat with time, and warm with the sun. The boy would have thought it was hot yellow tea in a can, if he didn’t read the label.

He goes back to the story. A with his girlfriend is chasing a gang of men who had stolen stuff from his car, while he was with the girlfriend at this beach, passively seducing her. He runs towards their getaway car, frantically memorizing license plates. It’s all a wasted effort. He jumbles it. He forgets. Things change. He swears.

The boy continued to read aloud. And what he stumbled or stuttered, or seemed unsure of himself, his mother would appear, and help him along, a following tide to correct his mistakes.

She pulls the car into the driveway. They sit together on the couch, the television aglow with the chatter of strangers, pictures and words from other worlds. Different lives. The dog places his front paws up to the screen, leaning against it. She encourages the boy to throw something, and he flings a shoe at the dog, it doesn’t hit him, but it does come close, and he scampers off into another room.

-Good aim.

He yawns. She carries him to bed. She slides the sheets over the outline of his body. He sure is small for his age. She kisses his forehead and gently closes the door. The sun had sunk. The world had dried. The empty gray space of night breathed out slowly, sharing, always sharing. And the boy breathed it all in.

Basketball doesn’t suck. Anyone with the last name Gumbel sucks. Zaga doesn’t suck, but not anymore in value then Northern Whatever (Kentucky) sucking hard and giving the game just after they took it. Duke never will suck. Utah State sucks in my feelings, not in my heart. Maryland SUCKS. Thabeet is a giant that could eat me, so he probably doesn’t suck. Beware doesn’t suck. D-Wade doesn’t suck. The Darjeeling Limited sucks. Wes Anderson sucks. Blogs suck. Books suck. People suck. Cats definetley suck. Awareness doesn’t suck. Pot makes you stupid.

Red beacon of thrift, next to Happy Teryiaki.

Shitting parking lot, too long and too short to be honest.

Sleet and snow and shit fall from the sky.

It’s raining like puppies and kittens,

with parachutes of course.

Nobody likes splattered puppies and kittens.

Sliding doors, they know just when I call,

Wet shopping carts, none even in the front.

All are wet.

I wipe them down with my soul.

My love goes to look at clothes

I gorge two hot dogs.

Reading ketchup packets.

Lycopene, corn syrup, tomato paste.

Lovers. Alvin & The Chipmunks shirt. Tight, tawdry.

Wonderful.

Waxed floors shining and reflecting the composite lights.

A basketball rolls down the mile long aisle,

Lonely and forgotten.

Luggage locks, and Yoga mats.

Books on tape, self improvement.

I need this. Joel Osteen, Nickelback, Little Richard.

K.I.S.S.

I feign reading, flip through a magazine, No Griffey in the M’s preview.

It’s a game, not a movie.

It’s a store, not a game.

It’s a life, not a store.

I’m in love with being in love with love.

And Target.

Fifteen Obama books, half illustrated.

More shampoo than I ever need.

I wonder what Costco,

Has that I didn’t know that I need

Videogame kiosk, Celtics vs. Lakers. Up by thirteen.

Ends in first quarter.

Man yanks little boy away from ajacent kiosk.

Little boy falls down. 

Man barely notices.

Flashlights, catfood, flimsy hammers. 

Rugs that cost three hundred dollars.

On sale! 3.47 off!

Not a sale, after all, really in the scheme

Of things.

Men with crooked jaws, and Seattle Seahawks shirts.

Leering at teenagers.

I wear a Seahawks shirt.

Identification gap.

I stopped leering at teenagers.

When I stopped being a teenager.

Now I leer at adults.

I am in love with the love of leering.

And fifty bathtubs for three grand.

That’s a sale.

I find my love, she has found clothing.

I have an outlet adapter that causes cancer and birth defects.

According to the state of California.

Dash for food.

No ice cream sandwiches.

I sulk, this the reason of reasons for the trip of trips.

To the store of stores!

So

My 

Love

Watches impatiently

As

I chew on a tire.