Well: I did it. I successfully delivered the letter I’ve mentioned all night. It was a long walk and it was pretty cold outside . . . probably I only saw five or six people the entire time I was out there. I mean, hell, they don’t call it Ghost Town for no reason.
Now I am back in my fortified compound on the Oakland-Berkeley border, and I have made some god damn tea and a cocksucking salad, and have held Dante several times, and have turned on the heat, and have put on a melancholy album (lol) because I have had yet another miserable fucking day, so why not:
That’s me and Dante, I guess, on the back of the huge turtle that I’m pretty sure is the same one from ‘The Neverending Story’. Well, whatever.
Sad paragraph #1: Around this time of year, people always say that “I can’t wait for this year to over” horseshit, as if that means anything. I mean . . . get real, buddy. If you think for one second that January 1st is the signifier of a new dawn in your life, then you need to freakin graduate from elementary school and open your freakin eyes. This is a slip-n-slide straight to hell the whole way through. I’m sorry! It’s not a question of whether or not you’ll go down, it’s a question of how long you can circle the drain. And listen, I’ve been shit on my entire life, all the way up until tonight, and so on, so if that counts for anything then go ahead and let it count. In one calendar year I have lost my grandmother and my uncle, have dug my grandmother’s grave with my own two hands, and committed her to the deep . . . have been obliterated by my best friend, have deleted pictures and thrown away polaroids and letters, have tossed a ring into the San Francisco Bay, have trashed a little blue toothbrush and a box of fucking tampons left under my sink. . . .
Well, at least Leila came back. And I have a Christmas tree.
I said today: CUTE THINGS ONLY FROM NOW ON. I apologize for this entry. I really don’t want to talk like this anymore. I want to forget everything, and be as empty as I was the day I was born. It’s just that I really have lost eight god damn pounds in the last week and a half . . . I’m all skin and bones, man. I’m seeing my psychiatrist tomorrow I guess. Under the bridge on MLK Blvd. a guy got in my face and screamed at me because I wasn’t born in Oakland. Woof. You know, I don’t go around assuming that every scary person has a gun, though I will say this: had he, for some reason, hated me enough to put a gun in my face, hand to God, I would have told him to shoot me. I’m not even kidding. I’m sorry if that sounds really sad, but at least I’m being honest??? Kelsey came over the other night, and we talked for a long time about this screaming nightmare I’m living in, and then I said, you know, let’s walk on down to Missouri Lounge and get a shot and a beer and sit beneath the heat lamps. She said she’s going through some shit too. Anyway: Around Broom Bush Cafe, where my friends and I used to go every Sunday (RIP), this big huge dude was staggering around all fucked-up like. I told Kelsey to get on the other side of me, away from the sidewalk. I saw this dude lurch behind a box truck and emerge on the other side walking parallel to us at the same pace. He kept looking at us. He was obviously following us . . . maybe seven or eight feet away in the street. After a block or so, still walking, I held up my hand and told him to back off. He pretended to not know what I was talking about. We kept walking and he kept following us. I held up my hand again: “Back the fuck up, dude. Leave us alone.” He laughed and asked me what time it was and we kept walking. I figured, you know, this guy is too stupid to even know where he is or what he’s doing. He was still scary as hell though. Not knowing what else to do, I stopped dead on the sidewalk and put Kelsey behind me. We just stood there and watched him keep going. He turned around and kicked a puddle and water splashed all over the place. We crossed the street and got the hell away from him. I was surprised that I just automatically did all that stuff. I wasn’t afraid. I guess I figured as long as Kelsey lived, it was OK if I died. I could die there so that she could get away. Yeah. I mean—who knows. But I really would have done that. I’m not so sad I want to die . . . just tired of all of this, of course, as I’m sure many of you are as well. I don’t want to throw away anyone’s stuff ever again. I don’t wanna get thrown away either. I’m not afraid to die. I did a bunch of things that were pretty cool. I knew a bunch of cool people. That’s good enough for me.
it’s true: i love my friend tombo. thanks for being my friend tombo.
i’m on my way to rachel’s to give her her letter
my old room in ghost town, on mead avenue
Back in late November, when I felt absolutely insane, and when I was secretly being made a fool of on the other side of the country, I wrote a post about running into my friends from Donut Farm who I hadn’t seen in a long time. Of the three girls I knew there, Rachel K. is somehow the only one I haven’t run into. Well: I sure do feel like I’ve woken up from a long dark dream—and, almost as if I were in The Program, I have this real urge to make amends for things I did in the past, no matter how minor, so that like a ghost with unfinished business I can right my wrongs and move on from this godforsaken hole~
AND THUS: I am currently writing Rachel K. a letter. I am going to walk down to West Oakland where I used to live and put it in her mailbox. There’s that Werner Herzog quote about how all truly important things in life should be done on foot, or whatever. . . . Yeah, it’s gotta be on foot. I’ll walk down Telegraph until I get to the Korean billiards house and creep up her darkened stairway and drop the thing in the box. It’s OK if she never replies, or forgives me, or whatever the hell else, because that’s not the point. The point is to just say something! And then walk away and accept that the act itself is enough. I love Rachel K. very much, and I think about her all the time, and I miss the hell out of her. I just gotta say I’m sorry before the whole world finally fucks me into the grave once and for all, any day now at this rate. . . .
I took these pictures of Rachel and her animals in December 2013. That was Four Little Secrets the rabbit and Kilgore the stray dog, who I named. Man, that was a good time. I love you dude.
word’s come down from ontario, and just in time because i’ve been losing my mind. no more! thanks for the letter victoria.
cute things only on this website from now on