It’s been a while. A lot has changed. In myriad ways, I have what I wanted. I’m in a better position than ever to sit down and finish what I started, five years ago, but I’m holding back for some reason. It’s like I’m peering back through the door I’ve already stepped through, reassuring myself that there’s nothing left I could still take with. Could. The subjunctive is a treacherous case, if there ever was one.

I’m still in Manhattan, I’m still in Harlem, I’m still willingly single, but I am suddenly free, freer than I’ve ever been, and it scares the hell out of me. I’ve been thinking about the will to not not write, and my own relationship to the stories and concepts I’ve chosen to live amidst for so long. I don’t really have friends, but I do have conversations. They go on for days, and there’s a certain cryptobiologic to the timing in opening each subject.

You should see me on the streets now. When I walk, I engender anyone I’ve been close to. A grimace, a guard, a flirtatious smile. Everything is certain because nothing is in its place. I’m voracious.

I did meet up with someone familiar recently. We shared drinks and workshopped in the beer garden of a bar in alphabet city. He had a heavy case of culture shock, but it was driven by narcissism with a dash of megalomania. I suppose I know by now how difficult the prospect of rejection can be to someone who lives alone. It was good to see him.

So why am I writing this here. I’m thinking to myself that it’s about time. I’m stalled eclipsing the moon, and I’m going to enjoy the way down.

It’s going to be one hell of a flight.



Many of these sentences will lack cohesion with one another. Apologies. May the reader be assured that there are logical connections, between these lines. My physical life in this city is relatively simple, but my imagination is having far too much fun with itself as of late; winding around another author or philosophy every six days. I do not tout the ideas of whomever I’m presently reading, but continually, nearly continuously synthesize the concepts I’m learning with my writing, and my internal narrative. The things I imagine and think carry me far away from this city I ostensibly exist in, to places more real, where I choose to persist.

Nearly forty days have passed since I began working outside again. With every hour lost, I’m reminded a hundred-fold just how badly I want a better job. I have a list of bookstores and writing gigs, but haven’t yet applied anywhere new. I came close tonight, before another whirlwind of self-loathing and existential terror began. The simple truth is that I can’t survive on the money from this sales job. I don’t doubt my desire to escape, but it’s eclipsed by the desire to continue writing my stories and essays, by the desire to research time travel narrative, by the desire to reacquaint Spinoza and Nietzsche, and my desire to make imaginary peers out of that vaguely affiliated collection of philosophers and cultural theorists once called the incorruptibles.

My opinion of myself and the state of things vacillates so strongly that in one day I know I will both ask a girl out and rock back and forth with arms wrapped around legs, repeating the series of mantras I used to use to keep track of the years’ turbulence with. I suppose I’m trying to say I want discipline, too. I just don’t want to come back to the world of taxes and debts, or my empty wallet and empty bed.

Things may be overwhelming, but my thoughts have become much clearer. I have more critical freedom because my sense of social reference feels more objective. I’m becoming very surprised at my writing. It’s so much more potent and alive and interesting! Not here, though, no, this is me about ten percent awake.

I won’t describe the pieces I’m writing in this post because that would literally be counter-productive. My works progress because I stay loyal to the desire, the yearning behind each piece. It’s fun, though. Each one nurtures a distinct version of myself. It’s a party in here. I have much more to talk about with myself than with anyone else. Especially here, in Manhattan. I say this only because everything intentionally shared is reduced to utility, in this place. Every word squeezed dry for neurotic or micro-fascist value, every confidence transformed into an opportunity for exploitation and mind control.

I really must find a new job, though. I do not believe I can keep this one much longer, because I either do well there or in my writing. I do not have the requisite support to cop both right now, and I do not expect that to change for a while. So I grow. These are the truly trying times. What was it I compulsively wrote on walls last year?


that’s right. fading now.

must sleep.