In the falling.
Venelux blankets, and shag hair cuts. And skateboards.
30 years and a million miles ago.
I didn't realized you could go that far.
And sometimes no matter what you do, the alien is you.
"I can love you for 15 minutes, or I can love you a lifetime."
- DR
I've done some fucked up things. Some stupid things. I've made mistakes. Errors in judgment. Not the kinds of things that ruin your life. But the kinds of things that you remember in the stillness. In the falling. And you regret.
That make you toxic,
sour,
turned.
In the falling
I can see it in my ugliness.
"Sometimes perfection can be
It can be perfect hell,
Perfect.
Hours pass, and she still counts the minutes
That I am not there, I swear I didn't mean
For it to feel like this
Like every inch of me is bruised."
- Jack's Mannequin
.
March 31, 2008
March 28, 2008
March 23, 2008
Gone
"With so little sleep
At least you'd think I'd find some peace in my dreams
In my dreams
But my mind still winds up on the same thing
The same scene
The same themes."
- Powerspace
"Well, why hasn't it come out? What happened?" After 4 years, I finally called and asked.
He sounds like he's eating. This adds to the way I always see him in my mind's eye: Full. He's full. "Oh yeah, that. Yeah, we never published that book."
Writers should be hungry. Once we lose our hunger, we're little more than editors. "I know. I know you never published that book. That's why I'm asking you this. What happened?" There is nothing worse than a full writer... except a full editor.
"It had nothing to do with your contribution." He's chewing. I'm imagining a chicken leg. "Your stuff was fine."
Being that he paid me without issue, I had assumed my "stuff" was "fine." But why wasn't it ever released, I ask again. I'm feeling something unfamiliar.
Now he's slurping. I'm imagining a YooHoo. "It had to do with him, and his contract. We aren't going to work with him. It's over. Don't worry about it."
I take the hint that he's not going to tell me the details. I let it go, because the details aren't going to change anything for me now. "So what happens to my work on that?" My ghost work. My secret work for a published writer... who's not publishing my work.
"What do you mean? Nothing. What difference does it make?" His voice has a hint of annoyance. "I paid you. Forget about it."
A picture comes together for me. I wrote it, I sold it, I don't own it or control it anymore. That's not new. But what is new, is knowing it is in an editor's file cabinet, condemned.
It will never see the light of day.
It will forever be forgotten.
There has been some kind of treaty. Some kind of way , that the war in my head stops, and this compromise is found. This was the deal. This is how I could do it. This is how it's done. And not undone.
I can't sign my name to It. I can't publish It myself. But when I sell It, somehow I'm shaking hands with It, and sending It off into the world with a pat on the back. I'm releasing It to someone else, who'll adopt It, who can do with It what I couldn't. It deserves that chance. It deserves not to be condemned for my inability to sign my name.
I can do the Words. I can dance without flaw. I can't do the people. I can't do the contracts. I can't do the life. I can't. And I found the treaty. I found the way.
And now, the treaty has been breached.
And I can feel The Words staring at me, betrayed, through the wood and the earth, and the lock on desk, and the failed contract of a published author completely out of my control.
I realize there are other layers. All owned, all mine.
Fear and paychecks not withstanding.
But there was this agreement. And maybe this isn't even the first time.
My stomach knots.
Stomachs don't lie.
He says he has to go, and I'm alone on the line. I listen to the disconnect.
I said, I listen to the disconnect.
All treaties are temporary.
Sometimes the world is big.
And there are many places where we can not go.
Like, back.
Or into somebody else's failed negotiation.
Or inside, of a locked drawer.
Or outside, of your own head.
"Somebody get my phone
So I can throw it in a public pool
And watch it float
And as it's slowly sinking down,
become a social ghost
Inside a box, cut out the top
To let some light shine in
To remind me of what I've done
And where I've been."
- William Beckett,
The Academy Is...
.
At least you'd think I'd find some peace in my dreams
In my dreams
But my mind still winds up on the same thing
The same scene
The same themes."
- Powerspace
"Well, why hasn't it come out? What happened?" After 4 years, I finally called and asked.
He sounds like he's eating. This adds to the way I always see him in my mind's eye: Full. He's full. "Oh yeah, that. Yeah, we never published that book."
Writers should be hungry. Once we lose our hunger, we're little more than editors. "I know. I know you never published that book. That's why I'm asking you this. What happened?" There is nothing worse than a full writer... except a full editor.
"It had nothing to do with your contribution." He's chewing. I'm imagining a chicken leg. "Your stuff was fine."
Being that he paid me without issue, I had assumed my "stuff" was "fine." But why wasn't it ever released, I ask again. I'm feeling something unfamiliar.
Now he's slurping. I'm imagining a YooHoo. "It had to do with him, and his contract. We aren't going to work with him. It's over. Don't worry about it."
I take the hint that he's not going to tell me the details. I let it go, because the details aren't going to change anything for me now. "So what happens to my work on that?" My ghost work. My secret work for a published writer... who's not publishing my work.
"What do you mean? Nothing. What difference does it make?" His voice has a hint of annoyance. "I paid you. Forget about it."
A picture comes together for me. I wrote it, I sold it, I don't own it or control it anymore. That's not new. But what is new, is knowing it is in an editor's file cabinet, condemned.
It will never see the light of day.
It will forever be forgotten.
There has been some kind of treaty. Some kind of way , that the war in my head stops, and this compromise is found. This was the deal. This is how I could do it. This is how it's done. And not undone.
I can't sign my name to It. I can't publish It myself. But when I sell It, somehow I'm shaking hands with It, and sending It off into the world with a pat on the back. I'm releasing It to someone else, who'll adopt It, who can do with It what I couldn't. It deserves that chance. It deserves not to be condemned for my inability to sign my name.
I can do the Words. I can dance without flaw. I can't do the people. I can't do the contracts. I can't do the life. I can't. And I found the treaty. I found the way.
And now, the treaty has been breached.
And I can feel The Words staring at me, betrayed, through the wood and the earth, and the lock on desk, and the failed contract of a published author completely out of my control.
I realize there are other layers. All owned, all mine.
Fear and paychecks not withstanding.
But there was this agreement. And maybe this isn't even the first time.
My stomach knots.
Stomachs don't lie.
He says he has to go, and I'm alone on the line. I listen to the disconnect.
I said, I listen to the disconnect.
All treaties are temporary.
Sometimes the world is big.
And there are many places where we can not go.
Like, back.
Or into somebody else's failed negotiation.
Or inside, of a locked drawer.
Or outside, of your own head.
"Somebody get my phone
So I can throw it in a public pool
And watch it float
And as it's slowly sinking down,
become a social ghost
Inside a box, cut out the top
To let some light shine in
To remind me of what I've done
And where I've been."
- William Beckett,
The Academy Is...
.
March 22, 2008
Remember Me
I met a guy playing poker in Vegas who told me he only had a little while to play, because he was on his way to the airport, to pick up his ex wife, to take her to his ex home, so he could visit his ex dog. He tipped the dealer before the hand instead of after.
Optimism wins.
I remember feeling very lucky that night. Lucky in Vegas. I don't even remember if I won or lost. But I was lucky to have sat down at that table and enjoyed his company for an hour or so. I don't remember his name, but I remember his smile, which was sincere. And plain. And made me feel warm. I don't remember what I did with the rest of that evening. But I remember that moment in time. It was just a conversation, with a nice person, about commonality. We talked about drinks, and major appliances, and black and white films. Nothing spectacular, nothing life altering. But memorable. To me, uncommonly memorable.
Life can be like that.
Many uncommonly memorable moments.
And chances that follow,
Opportunities to feel lucky for having made someone smile.
"It seems like misery loves misery,
My favorite songs, they keep me company,
So many memories come down to this,
I may be be lost but I'm not hopeless."
- MXPX
.
Optimism wins.
I remember feeling very lucky that night. Lucky in Vegas. I don't even remember if I won or lost. But I was lucky to have sat down at that table and enjoyed his company for an hour or so. I don't remember his name, but I remember his smile, which was sincere. And plain. And made me feel warm. I don't remember what I did with the rest of that evening. But I remember that moment in time. It was just a conversation, with a nice person, about commonality. We talked about drinks, and major appliances, and black and white films. Nothing spectacular, nothing life altering. But memorable. To me, uncommonly memorable.
Life can be like that.
Many uncommonly memorable moments.
And chances that follow,
Opportunities to feel lucky for having made someone smile.
"It seems like misery loves misery,
My favorite songs, they keep me company,
So many memories come down to this,
I may be be lost but I'm not hopeless."
- MXPX
.
March 19, 2008
The Status Quo
There's a lot to be said for people with baggage. They've already stood naked in the eye of the storm. I prefer someone who has sewn some wild oats to someone who comes without reputation.
People with pasts come clean at some point.
Eventual, you get it all. You get their whole story.
The dirty laundry, the skeletons, the rap sheet. All identified. All fingered. Nothing is lurking in the darkness, barred from the light of day, unnamed or potentially deadly. Nothing calls out to be unleashed when you don't put your wild side in a zoo.
We should all contain a jungle.
Everybody out.
Everybody freed.
Enough about the Manhunt.
On to Base.
We own so little. I mean really own. Possess. Our history. Our past, no matter how littered with errors and corruptions. We own our minds.
And then there is that which owns us.
Like your art. Like my writing.
"The dynamics of disfunction are very interesting. But don't let me interfere with your beating yourself up." -Patrick
I asked him if he was monogamous. He said, basically.
Patrick is basically monogamous.
I can ride that one into a million different directions.
He read some of my stuff, and said, there's a market for angst. He named off writers he could compare me to. I don't think he liked it. I don't think he understood much of it, and I think that bothered him. He justified it for about 5 minutes, seeking himself in it. And then finally he said it was good. That Taoist objectivity. An unemotional journey, simply cerebral.
I said reminisce.
He said dwell.
And I just didn't want to have the "you're an asshole" conversation, so I kept avoiding the threshold. Then he asked me if I had a pad next to me. That was quite bold.
He assumed he would be quotable.
This land is posted. No Hunting.
He doesn't have a jungle. He has a zoo that has had some escapes. He has some things suddenly running wild, and you just can't know what will happen.
I sat here listening to his synapses misfiring.
He asked why I ask so many questions. I said, "Why don't you ask any back?" And as he tried to answer, he caught that I had done it again.
And what am I going to say?
What would you want to hear?
Would you rather be hurt, or would you rather be ignored?
And it's just more fuel. In the end, it's just more fuel.
"I didn't sit down to write it. It just arrived."
-Paul McCartney
.
People with pasts come clean at some point.
Eventual, you get it all. You get their whole story.
The dirty laundry, the skeletons, the rap sheet. All identified. All fingered. Nothing is lurking in the darkness, barred from the light of day, unnamed or potentially deadly. Nothing calls out to be unleashed when you don't put your wild side in a zoo.
We should all contain a jungle.
Everybody out.
Everybody freed.
Enough about the Manhunt.
On to Base.
We own so little. I mean really own. Possess. Our history. Our past, no matter how littered with errors and corruptions. We own our minds.
And then there is that which owns us.
Like your art. Like my writing.
"The dynamics of disfunction are very interesting. But don't let me interfere with your beating yourself up." -Patrick
I asked him if he was monogamous. He said, basically.
Patrick is basically monogamous.
I can ride that one into a million different directions.
He read some of my stuff, and said, there's a market for angst. He named off writers he could compare me to. I don't think he liked it. I don't think he understood much of it, and I think that bothered him. He justified it for about 5 minutes, seeking himself in it. And then finally he said it was good. That Taoist objectivity. An unemotional journey, simply cerebral.
I said reminisce.
He said dwell.
And I just didn't want to have the "you're an asshole" conversation, so I kept avoiding the threshold. Then he asked me if I had a pad next to me. That was quite bold.
He assumed he would be quotable.
This land is posted. No Hunting.
He doesn't have a jungle. He has a zoo that has had some escapes. He has some things suddenly running wild, and you just can't know what will happen.
I sat here listening to his synapses misfiring.
He asked why I ask so many questions. I said, "Why don't you ask any back?" And as he tried to answer, he caught that I had done it again.
And what am I going to say?
What would you want to hear?
Would you rather be hurt, or would you rather be ignored?
And it's just more fuel. In the end, it's just more fuel.
"I didn't sit down to write it. It just arrived."
-Paul McCartney
.
March 18, 2008
Like a long urination
There are hundreds of waves, and its hard to tell which one will collapse and cause reality.
Last night it happened to be the wave I was riding.
I surfed
In and out of premonitions and recollections.
Expelling demons and inventing monsters.
Defining gods, and transcending time.
I had that fucking wave between my legs like a rocket.
I was sailing, hardly able to write it all down fast enough.
It was like a long urination...
..... pure fucking nirvana.
It flowed, and it flowed.
Even the breaks I took were just to write something else.
I was one with the universe.
I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Doing exactly what i was born to do.
My god, what a high.
I watched the sunrise this morning. Before it got too Monday outside, nothing but me, coffee and the sigh that comes with orgasmic success. And this is success. It's just me and this feeling, after one of those nights... when the world stops spinning, the voices in my head sing in enchanted harmony, and it all comes down to the most primal guttural innate heart beat.
The brightest moon.
The clearest sky.
Nothing but me and my Words,
The way god had intended.
Last night it happened to be the wave I was riding.
I surfed
In and out of premonitions and recollections.
Expelling demons and inventing monsters.
Defining gods, and transcending time.
I had that fucking wave between my legs like a rocket.
I was sailing, hardly able to write it all down fast enough.
It was like a long urination...
..... pure fucking nirvana.
It flowed, and it flowed.
Even the breaks I took were just to write something else.
I was one with the universe.
I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Doing exactly what i was born to do.
My god, what a high.
I watched the sunrise this morning. Before it got too Monday outside, nothing but me, coffee and the sigh that comes with orgasmic success. And this is success. It's just me and this feeling, after one of those nights... when the world stops spinning, the voices in my head sing in enchanted harmony, and it all comes down to the most primal guttural innate heart beat.
The brightest moon.
The clearest sky.
Nothing but me and my Words,
The way god had intended.
March 14, 2008
The Compliment
LD - You look all sexed up. What'd you do last night?
Me - I went out for dinner and drinks. 'Friend of mine is out of town on business, asked me to take out his boyfriend for him.
LD - I thought you hated to babysit.
Me - I'd make an exception for this one any day. He's 21, and he's beautiful. And he gave me the greatest compliment.
LD - What'd he say?
Me - Not what he said, what he did. I was having a martini, and I was doing that tongue thing I do with the olives on the toothpick. And I caught him staring with his mouth open. When I called him on it he giggled.
LD - Nice!
Me - I know!! He stared for a good 5 seconds! Can you imagine? 21, beautiful, and gay. That's a fucking hat trick, babe.
" Your lips give you away
I can hear it, the jet engine
Through the center of the storm
And I'm thinking I'd
Prefer not to be rescued."
- Jack's Mannequin
.
Me - I went out for dinner and drinks. 'Friend of mine is out of town on business, asked me to take out his boyfriend for him.
LD - I thought you hated to babysit.
Me - I'd make an exception for this one any day. He's 21, and he's beautiful. And he gave me the greatest compliment.
LD - What'd he say?
Me - Not what he said, what he did. I was having a martini, and I was doing that tongue thing I do with the olives on the toothpick. And I caught him staring with his mouth open. When I called him on it he giggled.
LD - Nice!
Me - I know!! He stared for a good 5 seconds! Can you imagine? 21, beautiful, and gay. That's a fucking hat trick, babe.
" Your lips give you away
I can hear it, the jet engine
Through the center of the storm
And I'm thinking I'd
Prefer not to be rescued."
- Jack's Mannequin
.
March 12, 2008
The Deer & The Bear
"When you said that, you spoke from deep within you. And when I heard you, I listened the same way. But then when you saw how deeply it hit me, you said you would have Worded it differently had you known. And that hit me just as hard."
-Lorenzo
Is this what defines me as a writer? Seeing the effect I can have? Wanting to control my passion enough to take a moment to reWord myself? That is concern. It is responsibility for weapons I sling.
Does diminish the passion because I can make the effort to reorganize it so that it doesn't bludgeon someone I care about?
"Power makes you paranoid" -Joe and the Volcano
He hands me these loaded emotional guns and tells me exactly how to hurt him. And I can't figure out which outcome he really wants. Does he want to see me resist? Or does he want me to blow his fucking brains out? He's attracted to the writer in me, the intensity in me. But I don't like how it wounds him. I don't want that responsibility. I don't think that should be my dinner.
The truth is I don't separate my writing from my world.
I think I can behave at the same vulgar raw level of my Words.
But I can't.
People fucking freak.
And look what it attracts.
And, could I even hold it back if I tried?
I am a nasty little girl, a tired old man, Pinocchio, and Mae West. All at the same time.
Am I responsible for every shockwave something I write causes?
Am I responsible for the Lorenzo's of the world holding their hearts and whimpering?
"I feel I have everyone's perspective some place inside of me... but they don't see mine... My perspective is so deep that even I can't see it." - Lorenzo
Ask me again. Ask me why I ghost.
Why the fuck wouldn't I?
How do I ever sign my name?
Moments.
That come.
And go.
I will probably never see him again.
But Lorenzo, know this much:
You left your mark, my friend.
.
-Lorenzo
Is this what defines me as a writer? Seeing the effect I can have? Wanting to control my passion enough to take a moment to reWord myself? That is concern. It is responsibility for weapons I sling.
Does diminish the passion because I can make the effort to reorganize it so that it doesn't bludgeon someone I care about?
"Power makes you paranoid" -Joe and the Volcano
He hands me these loaded emotional guns and tells me exactly how to hurt him. And I can't figure out which outcome he really wants. Does he want to see me resist? Or does he want me to blow his fucking brains out? He's attracted to the writer in me, the intensity in me. But I don't like how it wounds him. I don't want that responsibility. I don't think that should be my dinner.
The truth is I don't separate my writing from my world.
I think I can behave at the same vulgar raw level of my Words.
But I can't.
People fucking freak.
And look what it attracts.
And, could I even hold it back if I tried?
I am a nasty little girl, a tired old man, Pinocchio, and Mae West. All at the same time.
Am I responsible for every shockwave something I write causes?
Am I responsible for the Lorenzo's of the world holding their hearts and whimpering?
"I feel I have everyone's perspective some place inside of me... but they don't see mine... My perspective is so deep that even I can't see it." - Lorenzo
Ask me again. Ask me why I ghost.
Why the fuck wouldn't I?
How do I ever sign my name?
Moments.
That come.
And go.
I will probably never see him again.
But Lorenzo, know this much:
You left your mark, my friend.
.
March 10, 2008
Pencils Down
Face off.
I feel like there is a constant layering. Underneath all that is obvious and transparent, there is another layer. And another. A deeper aspect. A truer thing. And I can't stop digging for it, in the everyday of everything. And this is what makes me holier or lonelier than everyone I know. (I've forgotten which is which.)
He asks me what I do, and I tell him I write. After he listens to a few bars of my song, he tells me that he hasn't yet found his passion.
I've been nailed to this cross for as long as I can remember. I try to imagine not knowing. And how free that would feel. And at the same time, how incredibly alien.
He begins to tell me about his fear of death. It was strangely intriguing. I push, I want to hear. He asks what time it is and I lie.
I know, I know. Two minutes for tripping.
I offer to buy him a drink. I want to dig, I want to get below the surface to something deeper. We order a new set of carbombs, and I ask him. I ask him about death.
He says, he's afraid of not getting another chance. He's afraid life is a test, and he's blowing it. And that death is that final exam. And he's failed.
I remembered being 14 and sitting in the car waiting for my mother to come out of confession. I was just learning to reject it. I was just tapping into the deeper part of me then, the part that downright refused to face the god that had made me so different.
And now here I am, sitting on a barstool decades later, having come full circle. Now, I reject all of those that have made god into something different.
It's like celebrating the glory of virginity only after mastering the fine art of fucking.
There is no such thing as a latent Catholic.
I've repaired that hole.
Ten minute game misconduct.
I feel like there is a constant layering. Underneath all that is obvious and transparent, there is another layer. And another. A deeper aspect. A truer thing. And I can't stop digging for it, in the everyday of everything. And this is what makes me holier or lonelier than everyone I know. (I've forgotten which is which.)
He asks me what I do, and I tell him I write. After he listens to a few bars of my song, he tells me that he hasn't yet found his passion.
I've been nailed to this cross for as long as I can remember. I try to imagine not knowing. And how free that would feel. And at the same time, how incredibly alien.
He begins to tell me about his fear of death. It was strangely intriguing. I push, I want to hear. He asks what time it is and I lie.
I know, I know. Two minutes for tripping.
I offer to buy him a drink. I want to dig, I want to get below the surface to something deeper. We order a new set of carbombs, and I ask him. I ask him about death.
He says, he's afraid of not getting another chance. He's afraid life is a test, and he's blowing it. And that death is that final exam. And he's failed.
I remembered being 14 and sitting in the car waiting for my mother to come out of confession. I was just learning to reject it. I was just tapping into the deeper part of me then, the part that downright refused to face the god that had made me so different.
And now here I am, sitting on a barstool decades later, having come full circle. Now, I reject all of those that have made god into something different.
It's like celebrating the glory of virginity only after mastering the fine art of fucking.
There is no such thing as a latent Catholic.
I've repaired that hole.
Ten minute game misconduct.
March 03, 2008
Exodus 8:2
There was a vintage globe.
There was a hand carved Pacific Northwest totem pole, and a bottle of Mezcal.
I remember walking into his apartment. Each time was like the first.
He had a wall of black milk crates filled with maps, postcards, travel books, itineraries, and atlases. Over the couch there was an antique map of Greece in a gilded frame. Stuck in it's corner was postcard with a souvenir tourista map of Minnesota.
He was the kind of guy that goes. He doesn't just talk about it. He does it. He goes.
He sees it for himself.
He knows.
"Why do you want my opinion of this? Why not just ask your editor?" I remember sitting on the floor holding his pages, holding his Words in my hands.
He had a beautiful jawline, not too far removed from the big bad wolf. He had beautiful eyes. The kind that see you. The kind that see the world. He said, "Because your opinion matters to me."
"Me? Why?" I'm looking at the pages, I'm looking at the Words.
"Because of last week."
I think about that. "We went to see Magnolia last week."
"Yeah. And you got it." He sits down on the floor beside me. "You haven't shut up about it since. You keep discovering it. You've gone back every night to see it again and again." He gestures to the box of papers, to the story it took him the better part of 8 years to create. To write, the way we all dream about writing. "Just take it with you. I'll be back in the States next year. Keep it for me. Tell me then. Tell me what you think."
He's someone that goes.
There are moments when you realize you're a victim of society. Of the public masses. Of their limits and their downfalls. And then there are moments when you see, clearly, it is society that is the victim.
That night we talked about what defines us. And what we see. We talked about what makes his view only his, all his own, and no one else's. We talked about postcards and weird beer, and music. And Mezcal. And places not speculated, but actually seen.
I remember his apartment, and his maps, and his Words.
I remember his postcards.
I remember the moment.
He grinned. "You really got it."
He came back even better. He came back with even more. But I didn't like the beard. We were in a little bar just us, just talking. We were in a little bar, but nothing was little. He was holding my notes. He was holding them with more than his hands. "Very, you really got my story. You really did."
I hate to break the moment, but I do. I was asked. "I don't know how many people will, though." I think this might have mattered to me back then. I think it was there, on my plate, in my mind. I think this is the moment I learned.
He is smiling. "Will what?"
"Will get it. It's far, far beyond the comprehension of most people." I'm sipping a Mickey's Big Mouth. I drank weird beer when I was with him. He made me want to taste new things.
"And so was Magnolia." It had become the threshold. It has become the masterpiece by which all minds would be measured.
Why, in the world, would anyone ever strive to write anything less.
I can't argue with that.
I want to say it was 2001. I want to say it was early. I want to say it was just starting to rain, but maybe I only want it to be a rainy day, in homage. I want to say a lot of things. I remember that bar, and his old apartment, and antique Greece, and the moment. I remember thinking:
How strong of you, to be you.
To be as smart as you are.
And not to concern yourself with those that can not follow.
To know, without doubt.
This, surely, is what it is to be truly free.
"And so it goes,
And so it goes.
And the book says, we may be through with the past,
But the past ain't through with us."
- Magnolia
Paul Thomas Anderson:
Writer, Director, Producer, Genius
.
There was a hand carved Pacific Northwest totem pole, and a bottle of Mezcal.
I remember walking into his apartment. Each time was like the first.
He had a wall of black milk crates filled with maps, postcards, travel books, itineraries, and atlases. Over the couch there was an antique map of Greece in a gilded frame. Stuck in it's corner was postcard with a souvenir tourista map of Minnesota.
He was the kind of guy that goes. He doesn't just talk about it. He does it. He goes.
He sees it for himself.
He knows.
"Why do you want my opinion of this? Why not just ask your editor?" I remember sitting on the floor holding his pages, holding his Words in my hands.
He had a beautiful jawline, not too far removed from the big bad wolf. He had beautiful eyes. The kind that see you. The kind that see the world. He said, "Because your opinion matters to me."
"Me? Why?" I'm looking at the pages, I'm looking at the Words.
"Because of last week."
I think about that. "We went to see Magnolia last week."
"Yeah. And you got it." He sits down on the floor beside me. "You haven't shut up about it since. You keep discovering it. You've gone back every night to see it again and again." He gestures to the box of papers, to the story it took him the better part of 8 years to create. To write, the way we all dream about writing. "Just take it with you. I'll be back in the States next year. Keep it for me. Tell me then. Tell me what you think."
He's someone that goes.
There are moments when you realize you're a victim of society. Of the public masses. Of their limits and their downfalls. And then there are moments when you see, clearly, it is society that is the victim.
That night we talked about what defines us. And what we see. We talked about what makes his view only his, all his own, and no one else's. We talked about postcards and weird beer, and music. And Mezcal. And places not speculated, but actually seen.
I remember his apartment, and his maps, and his Words.
I remember his postcards.
I remember the moment.
He grinned. "You really got it."
He came back even better. He came back with even more. But I didn't like the beard. We were in a little bar just us, just talking. We were in a little bar, but nothing was little. He was holding my notes. He was holding them with more than his hands. "Very, you really got my story. You really did."
I hate to break the moment, but I do. I was asked. "I don't know how many people will, though." I think this might have mattered to me back then. I think it was there, on my plate, in my mind. I think this is the moment I learned.
He is smiling. "Will what?"
"Will get it. It's far, far beyond the comprehension of most people." I'm sipping a Mickey's Big Mouth. I drank weird beer when I was with him. He made me want to taste new things.
"And so was Magnolia." It had become the threshold. It has become the masterpiece by which all minds would be measured.
Why, in the world, would anyone ever strive to write anything less.
I can't argue with that.
I want to say it was 2001. I want to say it was early. I want to say it was just starting to rain, but maybe I only want it to be a rainy day, in homage. I want to say a lot of things. I remember that bar, and his old apartment, and antique Greece, and the moment. I remember thinking:
How strong of you, to be you.
To be as smart as you are.
And not to concern yourself with those that can not follow.
To know, without doubt.
This, surely, is what it is to be truly free.
"And so it goes,
And so it goes.
And the book says, we may be through with the past,
But the past ain't through with us."
- Magnolia
Paul Thomas Anderson:
Writer, Director, Producer, Genius
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