Coleman Letters (third letter)

8/12 (5:49AM)

Orbic,

Thank you for your letter. I didn't check my mail until a few minutes ago; and as I state above, it is nearly 6AM. I just got home. I prowled about the streets for a bit, but I couldn't really focus, per say, because it's Second Saturday and everyone was out. Man-O-Man, every one was out. And you know what? I didn't get irritated. I cruised the art galleries a bit, drank orange juice and eavesdropped on random conversations. It is amazing, Orbic -- and I'm sure you know this well -- people have nothing to talk about. Everything they say and respond to is gossip. Everything is "fuckin' bullshit" to all these non-thinkers who thrive on stupidity. I say I didn't get upset about it; and that really is true. I didn't. I just listened, laughed, and dreamt of indulging in the free wine – plagued with the reality of my thirteen months of sobriety. They give wine out like donations at these art galleries, I must say. It is very tempting.

Now, to answer your questions:

What will happen if your surgery takes a turn for the worst?

That's a good question.

Truly, I don't know and I don't think about it. I'm told about disability and being able to live and have a tutor teach me how to read brail and walk and talk and function like a blind person.

But I don't like to think of that.

The one thing my Mother told me to do, that I listened to and am proud that I did, was that I learned to type. I have an editor to correct my spellings and chop my run on sentences. So chances are, I'll keep writing no matter what. Especially since my goal is to be finished with my book before the surgery. I'm having momentary episodes of "shit, I think I can't see." But nothing too serious. Mostly, I react off lights. I wear shades in-doors -- which is pretty acceptable, fashion wise for the men (the women too). Problem is I'm out of style because I'm not wearing "stunner shades"; so mostly I look like the creepy guy in sunglasses and strange clothes. Not that I dress all that bad. But to be out and amongst the Second Saturday walkers, in my attire, is a dead give away for my lack of pop culture upkeep. I'm really trying with that. I read online as much as possible; and listen out for tid bits in regards to phrases ("I'm so crispy", whatever that means) and the latest music.

I'm sure I'll take the disability. I'd be a fool not to. But it is not going to stop me from writing.

Are you still in contact with Jill?

No.

Are you seeing anyone?

I am happy to say I am not.

As I've told you before, I'm just not made for that. I'm too esoteric for the taste of most women outside the crunchy granola-flower girls (and I have to force myself to see attraction with those types of girls).

Someone once told me -- in a very superficial manner -- that I "see beauty in people that is not there."

True? Maybe.

I've been with some pretty "so-so" girls throughout my life. Never the "top notch" tens that George, so proudly, measures his manhood against. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I had one.

Plus, there is my performance problem in bed.

It's too embarrassing. I come so damn quick I might as well masturbate and keep the sex partner in my imagination. I think it's just that I get so excited about sex -- since I don't have enough of it -- that when it comes down to it, I'm too overloaded for my own good. It might be best for me to rub one out before I meet up with someone. But that has no point these days because I'm just too damn terrified to try it. "Try it" as in, "try to meet up with someone." I'm so bitter with women, for the most part, that I can only see them as associates, on some level; but never for much else. They become subjects of study; but to get too involved is to place myself in a weird position of not knowing what to do next.

Have you gone to any publishers about your book?

It's a sad case, but no I have not.

Right now I'm too scared to pitch it. I don't know how to pitch it. I don't know how to break down what it's about, and speak about it in an articulate manner, because I don’t know what the book is “about.” I've mentioned to you before that it's so scattered that it's hard to tell.

I do want to thank you for your kind words on the chapter I sent. Same old Orbic: a whole lot of nice things to say, peppered with criticism so subtle I am fooled into thinking it’s a compliment…until I re-read it.

When you mentioned that the cab driver reminded you of "a lost soul with a clear-cut idea of his purpose" at first I took this as a compliment in my writing style (and I don't deny that on some levels it was a compliment). But when I thought about it more, and read it again, I realized it was a way of you saying "interesting" which meant the work was unclear and muddy.

I laughed my ass off when I connect this. I thought, "That Orbic, man. He is really somethin'." And you are. You live the kind of life that all creative people wish they could: with complete freedom. Boy would I like to live in Paris like you did for a year, then travel off to Tokyo for 2 years, then back to New York, only to live in a shit-hole apartment, and loving my creative life. I just don't have the damn balls to do it. I get too caught up in worry and fear of failure. We all know how deathly afraid of failure I am. It's a curse to me. I can never get over a simple hump and land on a path of motivation. You are truly a figure to envy, even if I don’t envy you.

Shit man. It's early, and believe it or not, my eyes are heavy.

I will keep you posted on things. Thank you for showing the concern. Makes me feel like you're right here by my side, like you use to be.

Night.

D

Pulse

When they found Winston Elswit he'd been drinking bottles of Kessler for six days straight. It was a marvel he'd been able to load the pistol let alone place it to his temple. Only when he pulled the trigger he didn't die the first time. He went blind. And for almost an hour Winston suffered in painful darkness -- sightless eyes burned with blood and the potent smell and sour taste caused him to spit and morph himself into a desperate animal -- as he felt about the floor to locate the pistol and finish the job. He was finally able to recover it and finished himself orally...

Though Spencer feared life and the thought of having to live in it he feared death even more. So by the time Steve dropped him back to his place -- after stating "Fuck it! I might go fuck Haley again!" -- Spencer was in a moment of catching a thought from his racing mind:

Melora.
Cha-Chi.
Haley.
His Father.
The Old Men on the porch.
The Irish Girl.
Laughter.
Isolation.
Smiles.
Music.
Skates.
Skunks on train tracks.
Dreams not pursued.



All of this coupled with the facts of his rich sex life which he'd often diminish to nothing:

- "I've fucked more fat girls than most," he thought. "Fat girls and ugly girls in their forties dig me...not that there's anything wrong with girls in their forties...but it's all I can get..."

When Spencer made it up the stairs to the door of his apartment he found his neighbor's door across the way wide open with blaring Steely Dan filling the air. He hardly knew this neighbor. He'd been over there for a drink once. But he didn't know her. She was white trash. Skinny. A chain smoker. Dora was only nineteen and her mother, Doris, lived in that one bedroom apartment with her. They were a strange mother/daughter "team." Far too strange for, even, Spencer's taste. For their was a time, a few months ago when Winston showed up at Spencer's apartment unannounced. Months before he shot himself. And the only time Spencer had a conversation with his father...

....he had one over me, dear friends; for I'd never met my father; he was a memory before I could think of him; I knew of his brilliance of charm; tendencies of flight; beyond his first name -- which I've long forgotten -- I had not known anything else...

Winston's four day stint included several six packs of malt liquor, all of which Winston drank on his own. Most of which was paid for by the large jar of change in Spencer's apartment. A jar that started out full and wound up a bottom layer of pennies. A four day stint that revealed Winston's violent side. None that Spencer witnessed first hand, but heard through the many tales spun in drunken lingo by Winston. The night Winston made them both a dinner of top ramon and hot dogs (Winston included a tall malt liquor with dinner, but Spencer declined). Winston confessed to hitting Spencer's mother. He confessed his regret. They sang songs of the 80's -- for Winston fancied himself a singer; a broken musician; even though it had never been recalled that Winston actually participated in the discipline. A four day stint that included not only the draining of his change jar, but Winston fucking both Dora and Doris...

...at the same time....

Spencer called Melora expecting her to hang up. When she answered he simply said:

- "Hi."

It took a moment.

- "Hi," she responded.

- "Sorry I called."

- "You OK?"

- "No."

- "You drunk?"

- "...little bit."

- "How much have you had?"

- "You want it in gallons?"

- (sigh)

- "I don't know how much I had. Steve came over."

- (no response)


- "Hello?"

- "I'm here," Melora said.

- "I know how much you hate Steve. But he had an issue, so he showed up with a 30 pack of beer."

- "A 30 pack?"

- "Yeah."

- "And you drank the whole thing?" there was a hint of judgment in her voice.

- "He had an issue. Trust me. It was necessary."

- "What happened?"

- "He had sex with an under age girl."

- (sigh)

- "Yeah. I know. He was all fucked up over it."

- "Who was it?"

- "Some girl. I don't know. She use to come in to the Garage...I don't know."

- "How old?"

- "Seventeen."

- "That's better than what I was thinking."

- "What were you thinking?"

- "Fifteen."

- "Oh no. Hell no. She was seventeen."

- "That's still bad."

- "Anyway he...we...drank a lot and...now all I hear is my neighbor's music."

- "Hm."

- "Were you sleep?"

- "Yeah."

- "Should I let you go?"

- "Yeah."

- "Can we talk for a few more minutes?"

- (no response)

- "Hello?!"

- "I'm here. That's fine."

- "I keep thinking about my Dad. It's been over a month, ya know, and I can't get 'im out my mind. Just like how he must have been feeling. Keep feeling like I'm just like 'im. Like I'll do the same thing he did. He was a guy of broken dreams and envy and homophobia. He was a drug head, a drinker, he was violent...when he was here, sure, he drank a lot. It was only four days but he drank a lot....would start at nine in the morning, go all day, and be up and out the house by five A.M. Kind'uh trippy, really...don't know how he did it...but he did it...he really loved me...he really did...wasn't there for me or anything, but he loved me...hated himself for not being there; all he did was express regret -- especially when I asked him if he hit my Mom. He said 'yes' and cried. Right there he cried...I didn't know what to do..."

- (silence)

- "Hello?"

- "I'm here."

- "Anyway...'m sorry I woke you up."

- "'S OK."

- "I really wish you were here...fuck...sorry....shouldn't have said that...."

- (no response)

- "I'm really sorry I said that."

- "You gonna be OK?"

- "Yeah," and then he said it again... "Yeah."

- "K."

- "I will uhhh...talk to you later."

- "OK."

-"Sleep well."

-"You too."

- "I will. When I pass out eventually, I will."

- "K."

- "Night."

- "G'night."

*****

Spencer awoke on the floor with overwhelming optimism. He unloaded a bit of change from the drained down 20 oz jug for coffee. He was down to four cigarettes and so he knew he needed to rashin his savings. The taste for beer was bound to hit later. Food was not much of a problem since he had hot dogs and eggs in the fridge. During this type of excitement food could only serve as a stomach lining. The priorities were coffee, smokes, and beer. He'd been in this position before. So he understood he could complete his purchase for $10. Problem was he was $2 short. This meant he'd have to get the coffee and smokes now, then "find" the remaining monies later. No matter. The optimism was too strong that day. He would achieve his short term goals and attempt to revel in the good feeling that he felt. He would not allow the downs to over take him. Hell if he wanted to (in his own mind) he could rid his life of financial burdon by the end of the day. He could stop his worries and laugh of the old days. He could speak of Winston's death as a tragedy. A moment in time that contributed to his success; and all those he'd tell the story to could look to Spencer as one who rose above the opposition while gracefully accepting his charity. He imagined putting surprise checks in the mail to all those he'd ever borrowed money from. If Spencer had acquired anything from Winston it was the inate spirit of belief from friends and family. That "one day" it would all turn around for him. They hardly paid attention to his flaws and his inability to finish anything. All they saw was the man he could be instead of the man he actually was. Spencer and Winston were able to superimpose success even with the obvious beggar's life they'd both led. It was a gift in some ways. A gift that would eventually need follow-thru if the belief were to continue. Other wise the options were likely to run out and Spencer would be forced to face the rejection he feared.

I held my index on the speed dial। Twice I pushed it and twice I ended the call. I anticipated the chaos arising with my number being lit on her phone. I could already hear the firm panic in Natasha's voice. That voice that would front with boldness while her sharp tone would disclose fear. Her balls were shields for weakness. A weakness I never deconstructed early on. Before I was the one held by the balls. The one in silence, hoping she might let up on the wind storm of hurled insults. She'd never demonstrated fear until the night I hit her. I confess, for a moment I was proud of my power. Even though it was temporary. She took that power back by having me hauled off to jail. The eleven hours in the holding tank amongst the local petty criminals caused me to fantasize of Natasha's regrets. I imagined her on her way to the bail bondsman, hurridly, with a fist full of bail money. Sure she would not be able to stop the D.A. from pressing charges, but it would have shown me the depths of her forgiveness. A forgiveness that did not work both ways. Our destructive relationship was not strong enough to sustain abuse. At least not in the physical form. She'd abused me plenty. Twice by hurly a lamp and once with a direct punch to the face. My nose bled but I told her it was "OK." It seems now I was telling her that so that she might return the forgiveness the day I hit her. I knew it might come. I knew the violence was within me. I'd fought it off far too many times to be ignorant of it. Though my violence meant nothing in jail. I was in the position of the helpless. I'd had my chance to correct behavior. I'd had my chance to walk away. I could never figure out why I didn't. Only that I needed the abuse. It gave me a hope. Too much kindness would only push me over the edge. I needed the unpredictable. I did not want to know what every night would bring. The next morning's anger. Frustration. Worries. I needed the lack of anticipation and predictability in order to have the feeling of a life. Too much calm erupted chaos. Too much of a regular life would push me over the edge. I could not handle being understanding. There was never any reasonable reason for any action between Natasha and me. Only the reality of it's existence. I pegged this as normal. When I was let out of jail I returned home to a stale feeling. I knew my court date was around the corner and I knew I might truly suffer for what I'd done. I wasn't ready for such a punishment. I never paralleled my life with punishment. Only the skin of my teeth. I had been released from many circumstances that might have proven fatal. But this would not be one of them. And as I sat in my car, watching her house, I understood I no longer could comprehend consequence, since I did not believe it to apply to me. The more trouble I confronted the more indestructible I felt. The lights went out in the bedroom. I waited but I never saw Ethan leave. Everything in her house was still. The rest of the night was quiet as the moon. It wasn't until I saw the Chinese couple delivering the newspapers that I finally started my engine and drove off. My phone rang. It was Shannon. She woke up and realized I wasn't home. This was when I realized I would have trouble when I got home.

Coleman Letters (the second excerpt)

Orbic

It’s been years since our last talk. I can safely say that it hasn’t been since we ran into each other at Ray’s bar, about two years ago, that we had our last talk. Not sure what you’ve been up to (which is the main reason for me writing you at this moment); however, it has been recently that I have began to remember things.

I was playing a gig tonight at Joppy’s (I’ve been doing blues singing and song playin’), and someone from the audience shouted out to me: “SING SOME OF THAT OLD RAILROAD-COTTON-PICKIN’-BLUES YOU ALL LOVE TALKIN’ ABOUT SO MUCH!”

And I got to thinking about the last conversation we had। The conversation about blues we had over cheap whiskey and Otis Redding. Me and you got to talking about our Daddy’s; how they were both blues players, much like ourselves (thought last time we talked you talked of givin’ it up; is that still the case?). We got to talkin’ about how we didn’t have a choice, as black men in poverty; we had to sing the blues to keep a sanity to our existence. We talked of our arrival here, through the Middle Passage, and when our forefathers were put in the fields, it was calls to God and verses of blues that kept them up; the same things that kept us up (thought our freedom was limited by our own state of mind by our chosen mentalities of victim-hood). We talked about going from slavery to segregation; how our fathers sang the blues to keep from goin’ crazy. How they held their heads down in the presence of the white man. Not blamin’ the white man (damn near praisin’ him for evil, as much as they was tryin’ to earn his respect). How our fathers looked up to Lead Belly for writin’ his blues song about the Governor while he was doin’ his time in prison for manslaughter…turns out the Governor liked what Belly had to say, because he let Belly out on “good behavior” (or as we remembered it “A—kissin’ without shame!”). Belly didn’t mean what he wrote about the Governor; all that he said about how the Governor is a good Governor; and how he honors the Governor for how good he’s been to colored folks. Oh no, Belly didn’t mean none of it. But our Daddy’s admired him because of it; and since our Daddy’s admired it, so did we. We talked about how neither one of our Daddy’s showed any real support of the Civil Rights Movement through action; but chose to support the Movement through playin’ the blues. We said how they both were uneducated men (much like ourselves) and felt they could not participate because of “All dem fancy words.” Ooooh, how we understood it; how we laughed and toasted that cheap wine till we found ourselves stumblin’ home and confronted by the police. “Public Drunkenness” they called it. But you called it “Walkin’ While Black”, which I have never forgotten; and I’ll tell you Orbic, that night put us in the shoes of our Daddy’s. For a moment we lived in the fear they lived in by walking the streets during the wrong part of the night. How our Daddy’s told us that when they’d woke up to burning crosses outside their windows so many times they began to think it meant Jesus was testin’ a new kind of contradiction. They said: “We saw it so many times, when they’d show up, we’d roll over and go back to sleep.”



Our Daddys’ stood as heroes how they sang about Martin Luther King; how they sang about Malcolm X; and how my Daddy got arrested for singing a song in support of Assata Shakur during church service outside the Jewish temple (how can a person forget that one?).

There was nothin’ our Daddy’s couldn’t do in our eyes; and I needed to write you to remind you that we have the same obligation. No more can we just sing the blues if there ain’t no blues goin’ through us. No more can we pretend we feelin’ a sorrow that we ain’t really feelin’. So I am writin’ you to tell you that I have recently been sent to prison for manslaughter…now I truly have somethin’ to sing the blues about. I tried writin’ a song for the Governor, but that didn’t work yet; so my next step is to try the Warden. I have yet to experience the bliss our Daddy’s might have; but I am patiently waitin’ for that day.

But I needed you to know that I have finally found a source. A source close to home, like our forefathers. A source of modern segregation to remind me of what it must have been like. All that damn integration on the outside took away from the pain…so now I’m here. Here for a long time. And I am grateful for every moment.

Write back soon. I would love to know how you’re doing. Take care. And say hello to the wife for me, if you’re still married. Until next time:

“Step on a pin
that pin will bend
this was the letter
now it’s the end.”

Best,

Chic

Macabre Of a Thief

I cared not for that child. He was nothing but the neighborhood thief. The neighborhood trouble maker, and I felt his time would be better spent else where.

When a window was shattered, a tire slashed, a shovel stolen, a newspaper burned, everyone turned the blame to ten year old Kenneth Brown -- the weightless kid who lived in the corner house with no friends and one grandmother (whose only view of him relied on past memory). Grandma Brown lived her days in front of the television while ignoring the accusations of her beloved grandson. When it came to Kenneth her eyes saw good; her ears heard joy and her soul felt God.

But Kenneth presented himself to us in full color. Shameless, head strong, with clinched fists pounding his bird chest -- going through one garage after the other, shorting us of our goods -- since he knew none of us would blow the whistle on his ways. He would smile his smile -- which would make me sick -- and crown himself the Prince of our once calm and peaceful neighborhood.

The last time he was seen was the summer of last year. He had an eye out for a particular bike owned by nine year old Tershawn (one of the rare kids in the area who still had both parents). Tershawn had good grades and lived on the other side of town. Kenneth took the effort, using hate as a motive, and walked to Tershawn's side of town and returned with the bike in his possession. He took it o his Grandmother's garage, pulled it apart -- down to the bolts -- where he would attempt to steel parts to the neighborhood bike riders. The only problem was he needed to give the frame a new identity, but had no paint. So when night fell upon us, and had eight hours to age, Kenneth began his search...and this search led him to me...

I am a "regular" guy. I work eight hours a day. I live alone. I once had a wife but that didn't work out. I fall asleep late, but the discipline gets me up and out the door on time -- with the help of cigarettes and coffee. I have never wanted much out of life outside of life on it's own. No perks. No thrills. Hardly even "happiness." Simply the knowing of day to day expectations and the occasional surprise to entice a laugh from my gut. I make modest money and indulge myself in books and brandy as I await the phone to ring in hopes of company for the evening. I'm a God fearing man. In fact God is my truest concern in life. I can live without a career. But I cannot live without God (it's God and spiritual matters that define my routine). A simple life with simple needs in a time of complexity and chaos; it can amaze my associates that I keep a clear mind and body. I observe my surroundings so I may form views and opinions and/or settle for facts (occasionally, I contradict myself; but what human being doesn't?). But with Kenneth Brown being the common man I was raised to be can take a turn for the extraordinary and put in plain sight a menace in need of harm.

For I cared not for that child.

And the night I heard my gate open - as I sat smokeless and indecisive, the answer made solid sense.

I remember that night, slipping on shoes, with sights of the all night liquor store that stood a mile from my elegantly run down, yet, humble home. My mind was a bit tapered from the brandy that night (a rare event for me) and four hours without smoking caused me to chomp my inner jaws in search of relief.

Although I heard the noise of my back gate - a sound which would drive most to call the law - something told me not to worry. I did what I would always do. I loaded my pockets with wallet and keys, and made my way for the front door...and that's when the noise from my garage made me come to a halt. It was then that I suspected who it turned out to be. I went out back, peering around the open side door he had entered through. There he was on his search. Kenneth didn't see me for several moments so I was able to watch hi in my own private enjoyment. He staggered and tripped over tools, while trying to find his night vision. I could see him trying to convince himself that as long as he believed he was silent, there would be no way for me to hear him.

Soon he turned around and saw me in the open door way. Kenneth screamed out loud and began to look for his way out. He tried to run but, yes, I caught him. I took him violently by the throat and held him, using my free hand to retrieve a dirty rag off a shelf I'd used a fortnight ago to change my oil. I stuffed the rag in his mouth, while he clawed and wiggled. I over powered his weightless body and took hold of a chain. I bowed the chain around his body and left him helpless (I never planned the macabre; but it worked out like brilliance of the best kind).

When I completed his restraints and fulfilled my lust of presenting pain upon him, I strung young Kenneth upside down, securely by his feet, and duct taped the rag in his mouth for insurance. There I stood by the twitching menace, malevolent, prided and without remorse. His escape was unheard of and my bed time was near; so I trotted off to the store, as planned, to get my nicotine. I was gone for an hour. I took my time on a leisurely drive, with the window cracked, smoking cigarette after cigarette with blaring talk radio rattling my speakers. During this drive I searched for reasons of mercy on behalf of young Kenneth...but I found none.

Upon my return, still young Kenneth hung upside down. He struggled and tried to plead mercy through the dirty rag. I nailed the garage door shut and fell asleep to the muffled moans and rattlings of chain, determined to continue my routine of late nights and early discipline.

Kenneth Brown's disappearance began a formal topic of conversation amongst the good people of the neighborhood. It came across, by all, as a concern. I find it odd. The remorse we feel when things happen to those we hate turning the quasi-emotion to a genuine output. It had been over a week since I checked on young Kenneth; yet the panic amongst the people of the neighborhood assumed years. Grandma Brown filed a "Missing Persons" and donated time and posters to the local church and local phone poles in hopes of his recovery. When I was approached by the, now, concerned good people of the neighborhood, my response was a simple one. I posed the identity of a concerned citizen and promised my support in his recovery.

It took me three hours to bury hi that day. The whole time I juggled the "what ifs" that could take place. I worried the smell would attract the good people of the neighborhood and bring some one with, let us say, a more forgiving disposition than myself out in the open and turn me over to the authorities. I also pictured the positive in having one of the good people of the neighborhood follow my example and assist me in the task at hand, while I would happily provide the brandy. But ultimately, to be truthful, I hoped for none of the above. The latter turned out to be the case. I was left alone to tend my hard work and bubbling stomach.

when I un-nailed the garage door the sweet and sour aroma hit me in cords. It caused me to sneeze and cough on contact. Kenneth dangled, just as I'd left him. But his blood shot eyes - that stared of shock - were filled with fluids. His stiff jaw and face dried out the gag in his mouth. Flies and other insects nickel ed and dim ed him to raw flesh. I disregarded the horror by taking him down. I dragged hi across my yard to thepre -dug grave in my rock garden and put his troublesome corpse where he could only create beauty. When I finished - perspiring painfully - I went in to my humble home and showered until the hot water ran cold.

The summer passed and the heat waves turned gloomy. Drops of rain and fog shown from the heavens like anger. Kenneth Brown's "Missing Persons" posters, once fresh and hopeful, turned yellow and hard. Grandma Brown passed away that winter - some say out of worry - in front of her television with her Grandson's picture in her lap. Her house, now, sits on that corner boarded up and spray painted...

("Here lies Rosemary")

...haunted and used as a Hotel for underage sex.

My routine continues without a ripple. As a man of eight hours a day, filled with concerns of God and spiritual matters, I hardly have time to look back. Although I did acquire one of the "Missing Persons" as a personal trophy (it rests in my office next to my awards for Swim Team and Chess matches). I still get the Mailbox Values in the mail with Kenneth Brown's photo on it, asking "Have you seen me?"

It makes me giggle...but a touch insulted because the "Missing since" date is always wrong by a week, and I have to correct the date for my own sense of accuracy.

The feeling of guilt does not linger with me. Especially with prescribed death. Kenneth Brown, though in my eyes - if circumstances permitted - would be worth the years behind bars, if say I had been caught. I imagined how proudly I would wear theburden as though I had provided a service to the good people of the neighborhood.

But I was never caught. Never suspected. I spoke not to an Officer of the law, a Lawyer of the court, nor was I troubled by the evils of media. I was free from life's karma, though facing consequences in the afterlife. Until then, I'm left with peace. Routine. My beautiful rock garden. Kenneth Brown hasbecome a myth in our lovely homes, told to misfit children before bed time, to set them straight and allow parents to rest easy.

For I told you...I cared not for that child.

Potent American Black Boy (part 2)

It wasn't the -- as an old buddy of his would literate -- the "regular'ness" of life that confused him. It was the voices in his head. The nightly drinking. The isolation between the bare walls of his apartment that got him down. Nothing made sense. Even his certainties. His beliefs hardly gave hope. He converted to atheism to lighten the responsibility of worship which, by standards of his loved ones, made him a failure. A "failure" because he failed to believe. He kept track of his failures. He wanted to refer to them for comfort. In times of cheap booze and costly banter. He wanted to take these failures and remember the pain, so that he may never judge as those around have judged him. He managed a sense of sanity, through his insanity, by way of "street intellectual" self proclamation. His observations of the world were all that mattered. In his mind he could silence a room by proposing an idea --

-- "True wisdom lies in admitting ignorance," he once told a lover.

He knew he'd paraphrased it from a greater thinker than himself. He just could not conjure the brain power to cite the reference. So he claimed it as his own.

His lover -- a petite pale Irish girl with locks that assumed pubescence -- would only give a nod to such wisdom. She did not fool herself into believing she understood. Nor was she about to lead on agreeance. She was more interested in the essence of his statement.

-- "To not know is a form of intelligence?" she asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

-- "Yes."

He lit a Kamel Red and laid on his back. For she wished to know more but he refused to push on. In his mind he had made his point. The very fact that she did not get it was -- in accordance to his jargon -- an understanding of her brilliance.

-- "So by that rational" she persisted. "One does not need to say a word and they've conveyed their intelligence? Is that what you mean? And then by saying that," she mused, "it would, then, remove all needs of opinions? Is that what you're saying?"

He smiled and pulled from his Kamel Red. Then with an exhale of smoke he nodded "Yes."

She thought this to be silly. It was this conversation that put a damper on their future. She knew he was not interested in much beyond the physical. Nor was she willing to be more to him than he were to allow. She simply accepted the limited contact between them, while loathing the blur of the upcoming months.

He did not see it this way.

He hardly contemplated the future but rather suffered in the light of the present (his gift). Even with his run away mind he could not allow an ounce of "what if" since to fall in this form of thinking would create a level of stress he was not willing to hold on to. Nor by gambling his freedom for the likes of a girl with (in his mind) a low intelligence would he rise above his limited progression.

No, dear friends, no. He was not willing.

He was, however, willing to use and be used until the smoke cleared. He was willing to take joy in the happiness of "this moment" that save towards "the big picture." His only strength was in his instinct. His only expression was through the physical. The rest was the air between the gaps he clawed for. The rest was an illusion garnished in secrets. The rest was the smoke that left a trace of it's presence, but unburdened the eye through ulterior flight.

Untitled Novel Chapter

I am a man of contradictions.

Though not the type where I confuse my actions out of rage for spite; nor flatter myself with nonsense psychology such as “bi-polar” excuses and “split personality.” But more the man who deems his actions justified when another might speak of my justification as a betrayal of, not only the nature I claim to live, but the ever-growing mission put before me and my lack of consistency with God’s will. Since I am a man of contradictions, it is common sense that consistency would go against my very nature. For I will call myself a man of God, then curse Him in times of tragedy, as I beg for Him to pick up the pieces I’ve dropped along the path, while on my way to acts of sin. I am the one who reaches for realism in others, while fabricating my actions for cheap thrills, easy laughs, high pay checks and free drinks while calling the next man a “sell out” for committing the same actions (often I will down talk an action, while pursuing that very action for my own self gain, and laugh at the enjoyment of my double standard and lust for debauchery). For my contradictions cause the internal stir within my liquor filled gut, while soaking my stomach with fast food in search of momentary sobriety so I may make sense for the moment then return to drunkenness for the long haul. One may think I live for the moment. But oh, friends, I must say with all honesty, the moment is too short for me. Too short, indeed. I’d much rather live for eternal life and see it all before I live it in order to kill the thrill of surprises to avoid let downs for high expectations. For it is my contradictions that lead me to loneliness while interrupting my company with a demand of social isolation where I may freely be vulgar, obnoxious, argumentative, loose lipped, and broke from over spent time in my wallowing intellect. These contradictions. Rule me. Take me over. Lead me to blackout – after a long night, I intended to be sober, but ended up with an excuse of self-made depression caused by failure and self-pity; and it was the blackout that caused me to find a corner, place myself in position, and the world around me was suddenly gone and I found myself going into a blackness…

…where I soared into a long nightmare that drug me through the lowest depths of myself and I heard the noise of demons and debauchery calling my name in echoes, as I roamed the streets in utter loss looking for the quickest lay or the quickest death – which ever came first. The demons knew my pain and debauchery wouldn’t question…but they’d both laugh. And laugh they did. They laughed hard at me. They laughed and laughed until they took the form of two old Negros on a porch preaching the life advice they never followed, high on reefers and slurred on whiskey.
“Ain’t that…?!”
“Diane’s boy?!”
“Ain’t it?!”
“It ain’t!”
“It is!”
They called out to me as I walked the street in search of any type of trouble I might find to allow a fair exchange that most victims long for: my self pity in trade for regret.

Them two old Negros continues with me:
“Aye boy! Diane’s boy! C’mon over now!”
“I tell you it ain’t him!”
“I tell you it is! Hey boy?! Ain’t you Diane’s boy?!”
I said: “Yes I am.”
They said: “Tol’ you, ya ole drunk!”
“You drunk too!”
“Mo’ high than drunk!”
“High and drunk?!”
“Drunkly high!!”
They laughed for a good long five minutes then proceeded to talk of my life.
“Right now you feel you ain’t worth a damn –“
“—which is OK cuz we feel it too!”
“Not that you ain’t worth a damn –“
“—but that we felt like you feel once or twice or a few thousand times, like we wasn’t worth a damn!”
“Just like you!”

They spoke in circles and bulls eyed the core of my problem. For they saw clear in my face I was looking for a way out; yet a way out through the exterior world would only cause my downfall and suffering, and this part about my search for trouble they could not tolerate.
“Ain’t no question better answered ‘bout yo’self than from yo’self!”
“You lookin’ for the answer?!”
I said: “I am!”
They said: “You lookin’ for the ladder?!”
I said: “I guess!”
“Then look in the sloppy walls of your own damn mind and all your problems will be answered!”
“Well…not all of ‘em!”
“Still gon’ have money problems!”
“And woman problems –“
“—Ain’t no cure for them problems.”
“’Specially when they both happen at once.”
“Then you really got a problem.”
And they laughed some more, good and long and loud and proud, but to their own failures, dismissing my worries with a “you’ll be fine young bru!” Then they lit the reefer, passed the whiskey and continued to explore the complexities of themselves. I continued my search for trouble as their laughs began to echo in the distance. To the average bigot or black Republican those two old Negros looked like God’s example of failure, when in contrast they were God’s example of their being no such thing. It was God’s example of God’s intention, in that God says:

“IF I MEANT FOR THEM NEGROS TO BE SOME PLACE ELSE ‘SIDES ON THAT PORCH I’D’VE PUT ‘EM SOME PLACE ELSE!”

In to say “failure” is the failure to listen to the inner voice that speaks in the voice of God that gives way all them clues to placement:

“IF I MEANT FOR YOU TO BE SOME PLACE ELSE ‘SIDES THIS MENTAL FUNK YOU IN, I’D’VE PLACED YOU SOME PLACE ELSE!”

Which God buttoned with

“UNTIL THEN…TAKE FROM IT THE LESSON!”

…then I awoke from the blackout to daylight, surprised to find myself fully clothed and in tacked. For no one had taken advantage of my vulnerable state. No one had wondered if I had come across an early death through my internal journey; but rather I was left to ponder my previous actions, while the others go about in silent judgment for my previous state. For Lord only knows what they recall. What they retained from what I might have spoken of out of personal rage. Yet they did not say it out loud, though I felt it…I felt it and I was alone; me and my contradictions, whom I thought would have left me after such a dream; but instead my contradictions contradicted themselves and began to question their purpose…

…and now I can’t move…

Coleman Letters (excerpt)

Orbic,

My coverage has been random. Anything from under age kids with fake ID's smoking cigarettes, to bikers who trail together and enjoy such events as relaxation with a cup of hot cocoa and late night street dancing. I find it all interesting and a bit over the top. I am in no way judging -- for I have to find an interest in my subjects in order to write objectively of them. However, I'm bored. I am terribly bored with what I do. It kills me to not have my major topic. My colleagues have there’s, and I seem to be catching all of the left overs and using them for what they're worth. But like left overs, I am best the next day, late at night, after a twelve pack and a lot of music. I am good in the hours where you are reminded that such left overs are present, and I cause a private excitement. I don't get much "fan mail", per say. But I do get the occasional blurb in the opinion columns, where someone will comment about a topic I have covered (I have enclosed a letter from a woman who was fascinated with my coverage on the porn industry. She calls it "...the most feminist approach, by a male voice, on such a controversial topic."). I shared some private joy with that letter. I have it framed and above my couch, where I once kept all of my rejection letters from previous novels. I took all of the letters down (a friend of mine says it contributes to my cryptic thinking) and filed them away. I still have them, mind you, but they are just out of sight. But not out of mind.

As far as the surgery, it's just a matter I have to face: my eyes are terrible. I can see fine, except the doctors seem to think different. I really don't understand the "why" behind it. All I know is that it terrifies me. I'm not sure anymore of what I have to look forward to. All I know is that things can go one way or the other. Either I will come out with vision, or I'll come out with memories of vision; therefore, these next few weeks are going to be dedicated to seeing all that I can, so that I can file it away in case. I have done that throughout my life anyway. Filed away precious moments that I can refer back to. My life bathes in nostalgia as it is, so why should this be any different.

Fact remains, I could be blind by next month. This scares me to death. To have lived a life time of seeing everything, only to have it taken away is something that I never wanted to imagine. Hell, it's something that is hard to write, let alone face in life. I would much prefer to write it:

"He saw his wife for the last time that morning. The length of her hair. The crease in her smile. Her uneven, yet, appealing breasts. For some reason that morning, he watched her ready herself for work in a way that he never had before. He took his wife in fantasy upon the kiss 'good-bye'. And when she walked out the door -- and he was reassured of her departure by the sound of her car, the garage door and the sudden silence -- he took himself in his hands, with her body in his image, and made love to her without the worry of her being displeased."

This is just my example (not an excerpt from the book yet...but it might be), but I think you get the picture. To write it, it sounds like a tragedy; pitiful, almost, with it's description which hints at the fact that this man and his wife have not had a sex life for some time; or their sex life is without excitement; and men being men -- responding audibly to sexual stimulation -- desire their wives to speak like strangers and take advantage of them...but that is a whole nother topic all together.

I spend massive amounts of time in front of the computer. I have the Anthony Burguess syndrome, where I am told I have a limited time of my lifespan, therefore I am determined to write everything I have ever wanted to (of course, in the case of Burguess, the doctors were wrong about his diagnosis; but he produced some of the greatest writing of our time). I hope to find this type of mode. And I hope to compile my articles into a book at some point -- especially the stuff I'm writing now -- and sell it as a collection. Call it "The Esoteric Blindness" or something post-modern, and kick back in the beautiest feeling of artistic achievement, that I celebrate in the blackness of the rest of my days (oh, I'm being cryptic again).

I'm on to another book. I don't have a title for it yet, and I'm not sure what it's "about" per say. It's pretty Don De Lillo in it's approach (think Underworld). The book is full of scattered events that connect in subtlety, but don't hold any strong "story points." I'm off of that. I don't care anymore. I have rejected all the bullshit I was taught of what makes "good writing" and I am off to write something that speaks to me, rather than instructs me to speak to my audience. I am convinced that things become popular based on the the mood of the masses, not what Mary Higgins Clark or Danielle Steele tell us that's popular. It does not matter anymore. I am writing the book from what I know, love and experience. I'll send you chapters when I break my 200 page mark (I'm 20 pages away).

Now, Jill and I. It just did not work. She and I live in two different worlds. She extraverted, I'm introverted. It's that simple. For awhile I thought our differences was our charm; and perhaps it would have been, had I not been such an insecure soul. I stopped trusting her. Not based on anything she did (that I know of), but rather based on what she MIGHT HAVE done. I often imagined her flirting with men at her job. In grocery stores. When we're out to dinner. Every time she'd excuse herself to go to the ladies room, I imagined she'd made contact with a man across the restaurant, and signaled him to meet her (it's not like this does not happen. Remember me, you and that woman Joanie in Seattle at her husband's "congratulations dinner?" Did you ever talk to her again?). I would check the history of her cell phone. Spend ours trying to break the password to her email, only to get in and grow more upset at the fact that I COULDN'T find anything. Jill was too pretty. Too loving of attention. And this, in my eyes, made her guilty. This, in my eyes, made her not love me. This, in my eyes, meant she was waiting for a way to politely end it with us. Until the day came that she did, when she told me she was tired of feeling trapped around me. She was tired of my insecurities and contradictions. Meaning, I could go and cover porn stars and hookers at brothels, and she was just suppose to "understand." However she couldn't get a cup of coffee from the near by Java City without me raising a fuss (I can hardly remember how I would raise these fusses; only I know I did because she told me over and over "You always raise a fuss!").

Eventually Jill grew tired of the assumptions and accusations and me not trusting in her love and loyalty and dedication to me, and soon found herself in the arms of another man. One has to figure, if I am going to accuse her of all this, she might as well do it and have something to be guilty for rather than nothing. Yes, I know, cryptic logic. But how else can I look at it now? I live in a two bedroom apartment (a definant downsize from our large Victorian that looked straight out of a Woody Allen movie), one room as my room, the other as my office. I sleep more in the office than I do my room, only because of the large amount of work I do, and my lack of sleep in the process. I put thick curtains on all of my windows and allow in no light in the office, nor my bedroom. The light, simply, hurts my eyes. It's why I transferred to the night beat to begin with. That, on top of my, rather, nocturnal way of life that has been my staple for as long as I can remember. I can recall being a child, with a bed time of 8 PM, and yet, NEVER falling asleep before 2 AM. I would long to sleep through the day; but my school schedule (and a Mother who was a stickler for education) forbade such tactics. And I would find myself suffering through the day, and fully awake come evening.

The living room is a different story. It's like walking into the throws of heaven with lights thick and blinding, and through the light you can see God or somebody standing there greeting you. I'm an atheist, so I stay out the living room in the day time, as much as possible. My eating habits have dropped as well. Food is such an after thought in my life, I might as well donate my stomach to an appreciative bulimic and call it a life. My consumption consists of junk food -- hot pockets, chips, and fast food. The only good thing I have going, health wise, is that I don't drink. Never really been my thing in the fist place, except when I was falling down drunk every night for ten years straight. You know, the nights I would call you at 3 in the morning, after a 12 hour bender and harass you into hearing out my problems (soon you limited my phone calls to no later than 10 PM on weeknights and midnight on weekends. I'm sure you HATED when I finally let myself get seduced into email). I don't think I was an alcoholic. Just a bit too in love with the drink. I didn't think anything of it. It wasn't, like, I needed it first thing in the morning; and most of my drinking happened at home at the typewriter. Often times (to Jill's annoyance) I wouldn't come to bed. She would wake up in the morning or the middle of the night, only to find me, head down on the keys of my typewriter, empty wine bottle next to me, and my white tee shirt stained red from spills. It got to be so often that when she would retire for the night, she'd close the door expecting for me to not crawl into bed (for the last 2 years of our marriage, I hardly did).

I'm being random. I know. It's just been a long time and so much has happened, it's difficult for me to keep a linear thought. I am forced to do that in my work, but not with you. I know you can cluster through all of my ramblings and extract the gems. Or you find the most ridiculous sentence, shake your head, and make that the basis of the "he's such an idiot" theory you have carried for me over the years (one of the many reasons I love you).

I'm going to close for now. I will keep you posted on what happens. Write back to me soon, so that I can hear how you are as well.

Take care.

Your Friend

Chic