News To My Muse

 
Here is a response of sorts to the news from you my muse. No editing. This is straight from the vomitous chomp of the horse’s mout.

Mouth. That’s right. If I don’t finish a word I start it again on the next line. Sometimes. I’ve finally come to terms with my typewriter and it’s retarded brother the space bar. 

Let it skip. I think it looks cool on the paper. Like the little bumps on a music box cylinder.

My right hand is killing me all full of scrapes and scratches from a tequila bottle in my kitchen that gave me trouble earlier this evening when I was preparing to sit down and type this missive to you, Chloe, easily the most, the closest woman to who I wish I were myself. To you Chloe, the closest woman to the who I wish I were.

It may not read as romantic but I think it’s more fuck these words I keep tripping over them like logs in the woods at night. Like logs and I’m running through the woods at night.  I know you don’t like my raw stuff so I am thinking too much. That’s why I’ve chosen the typewriter to write to you. I do love you and I want to give you the dirtiest most humiliating brain paralyzed retard truth of my soul and who I am before you when you’re not looking at me through the filter of your mind or your heart or your eyes.

I’m sorry that I don’t always have the fortitude to follow the ultimate truth. It’s new to me and I’m still learning it. We’ve both agreed in the past that that you have a way of dramatizing people, affording them qualities that they may or may not have and may or may not recognize. You’ve come across me at a time in my life where I’ve just started to catch the slimmest glimpse of what I thought the truth was. But you also caught me at a place in the woods where I was coming to grips with the fact that according to my new paradigm about the truth and life and what the fuck was going on here, well according to all that shit, all the years of my life leading up to 11^th street some, or maybe my addiction and overdose but all that time those 26 plus years were wrong.

Like I was driving down the highway in a car nearly out of gas while the pressure of piss is pushing pain in my bladder stinging the inner tip of my dick. Only to realize I had been driving in the wrong direction for the last hour and a half and that I’d have to turn around and drive back not only the hour and a half I’d gone in the wrong direction, but an additional hour in a completely different direction, before I would have the chance to relieve myself.

I’m obsessed with myself not because I’m narcissistic, though I’m not denying that I maybe have those tendencies.

I seem obsessed with myself.

I’m preoccupied with the fact that I used to be happy and for the last couple of years I haven’t been, not really, and I want to know why. I claw and I dig and I pay some old miner in Croton to help me. I’m sorry for looking inward so often. But again, it is in this season that you came across me. Came upon me.

You’re ahead of me in appreciating books and remembering authors and recommending them to friends. I didn’t used to be into books enough to remember the authors or want to share them with my friends. I read nearly nothing but Stephen King until I was in my early twenties. And I don’t give you books because I don’t give anyone books. I’m too anal for that and you know it. It has nothing to do with your importance to me. You got into Bukowski on my recommendation. But fuck it.

I was, I felt, more myself with you than ever or anyone before. My true, inspired, wandering, lustful and passionate self. And the only reason I felt any of this truth about myself was because of my utter admiration of you. You were like a celebrity to me. I was intimidated by you. You were larger than life. I felt weak in front of you. I never fucked anyone like I FUCKED (accidental caps lock) you because I never wanted to let you down. I wanted to keep impressing you because you were a source I could trust.

It was as if when you told me that you like my writing it was like Bukowski himself or Hunter S. Thompson

Holy fuck a lady just put her face to my window, the one by the stairs, and screamed “MARY!” and I have my headphones on and I’m typing as hard as I can lost in Chloe land and oh my god and holy shit the char hot lighting bolt that is only now dissipating in my chest. Fuck. That scared the shit out of me.

Anyway, you were like a hero to me, the ideas that came to your mind, the things you wrote about were exactly what I thought writing was about. It was like Bukowski or Hunter or Henry Miller rang my apartment buzzer, came in, got drunk with me, told me they loved my writing and then made me fuck them the best I could.

Don’t you understand Chloe? You’re running around in the parking lot crying over the broken bottles you could have recycled for five cents a piece all the while forgetting that you have a backpack full of money on your back. I know the backpack just seems like an annoying weight but if you take the time to open it up you find it’s true worth.

I don’t know. Doubt. I’m full of it. That’s a weakness but that’s me. It sucks. It’s not that you’re not good enough for me. It’s that nobody is. Not even myself.

Do you see that?

Anna was an amazing girl in her own right. She showed me a lot of things. Taught me a lot of things. But I didn’t cheat on her just for some new young tight pussy though I’d be a bald liar—haha—get it? Bald. I’d be a fucking liar if I said that had nothing to do with it. But what it really was and what kept me at you for so long and to this day and whether you want it or not for as long as I’m able to think my own thoughts was that you made me believe in a truer version of myself. One that I was scared to entertain before I met you. But you made me feel this way and I don’t know any other way to say this though I know I’m repeating myself, you made me feel like a truer me than I had ever been and you gave me the courage to admit that I wasn’t that domestic man living on 11^th street.

Now you seem to want a piece of that domestic man. I don’t know, this isn’t about arguing. This is about me telling and settling with someone dear to me how I really feel about them because I’ve brought you more pain than I expected. More pain that I would ever want to.

I wish I could call and talk to you right now. I love you. I’ve said from the beginning that I don’t want to be your adversary. I don’t think your writing to me, the news from my muse, which you no doubt surely are, wasn't honest and true to the best of your knowledge. Not that anything you said was wrong but I think it’s okay to see things differently.

I’m sorry you found those underwear, not because you found them but because of how that made you feel. The skinny boring girl is interesting to me in her own way, just like Dave Coconut was to you and whoever else you slept with while I knew you. And just like everyone else you slept with before you met me. In my eyes, the way I see it, everyone is truly their own person, their own experience, and no one person can satisfy all of any other one person’s needs.

But it fucks with the ego. It fucked hard with my ego when you told me that you fucked Danny. I believed you and I thought he was way cooler than me. I knew Dave had a better body than mine and a bigger dick. But I try my best not to be a hypocrite. So I tried to see it from your point of view and mine at the same time.

When I had sex with you did I think bad thoughts about Anna? No, I thought good thoughts about you. Anna wasn’t in my mind. But I didn’t think about you when I was with Anna and I didn’t think about you when I was fucking the skinny girl. Sorry, I’m just using that name because you did.

But we all want to be loved and perhaps my love for you confused you into thinking that I must not have any feelings left over for anyone else. I wish it were true but I doubt that’s true for you either no matter that you say you’re a girl and you’re jealous. I’m jealous too, but it is completely unproductive. Chloe is going to do ultimately what Chloe wants and feels. If she didn’t, I would lose respect for her.

But she’s got to let me do the same.

I don’t know. I just feel like I see things differently. None of which is a comfort to you but I don’t know what to do.

As far as books and other contributions go, well, I’m hesitant to say I’m not as smart as you but I kind of feel that way. But my low self-esteem and shitty self-image is a constant adversary so I’ve got to try to believe that our minds just work differently. Which goes back to how important you are. I’m forced to believe that I have something worth saying because this brilliant and exciting girl tells me I’m brilliant and exciting too or at least that’s how she feels by ‘liking’ me. Fuck. I keep going in circles but I just can’t convey the power you have over me. But I don’t think you see it.

You keep telling yourself that we are friends. That’s what you wrote. Well I hope you keep saying it. I love you. I’m your friend Chloe. And if you ever want it again, I will be your sex fantasy robot. But if you meet a man who is a better and improved prototype, then I will still love you and will still be your friend.

I wish I were with you right now hitchhiking in smush nosed European tractor trailers while you interview and puking in the smurf-ass sized toilet of a canal boat while you pounded on the door for your turn to do the same.

I just went back and read some shit. Fucking typewriter is an unfortunate partner to my mind. They both conspire to skip letters and sometimes words. God damn it, I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could have the balls to quit my job and skip out on my lease to be with you on your adventures. I guess I’ll have to have my own. But as usual, yours seem better to me. Maybe now you can compare this with your enlightened typings and see that I’m just a stoner hack lucky to have been kissed by your wonderment.

I’m sorry about how angry I got about your text revealing your knowledge of my secret writings. I’m sorry I was so quick to say we were done, friends or not. Just now I was petting my cat and thinking about how quick I was to decide that she had to die. Even though she was innocent and depended on me and had been with me through so many experiences. Her needs overwhelmed me so I wanted to run. Cut ties. Hide away. I was really just acting defensive when you sent me that text. I didn't...

Why do these feelings of happy lust and longing turn into pain? They don’t for me. But I remember how happy you were at the after-writing-class-bar when I pressed against your leg when we pressed legs and when I squeezed your ass at the jukebox. Why does time introduce pain? Attachment? Why does attachment come along and punch the truth in the face? I’ll be honest; I am forever fascinated with women. Skinny fat medium boring exciting and lame.