Letter from the Editors

As is the case for literary escapades such as this, we, the editors, have commissioned ourselves to produce a brief introduction to the works we have created and hoodwinked others into donating to our cause. This introduction will involve a description of how we came to assemble the pieces we did and what, when placed together they create. (There should be a synergy at play here. We wouldn't want merely to assemble random pieces that do nothing cohesively).

We began with the wind slamming full force into our face. By this I mean that we, as editors, are new, and this, as a blog/magazine/literary adventure, thing. By this I mean that we, as editors, could not, with ethos alone, reel in literary titans, nor could we commission works to be done. We had to work with what we had.

Fortunately, what we had to work with represents an overly discussed sliver of our nation's consciousness. Liberal college students. Sitting down at a long table, discussing what we wanted to come into this doing, we decided that, given our rather small resources, our best bet would be to ask around for friends, all liberal college students, to submit to us the creative piece which they are most proud of. Nothing else. Just that one criterion. In this sense, we hope that our magazine/blog/literary etcetera would serve to represent where, intellectually, us liberal college students, lie. What are our principles and how do we read our own lives and times and places and existences. We got a few things back and sorted and weeded and decided to include the pieces you find below. An essay by Mariko Helm. Another essay by Taylor Hubbard. A poem by Noah Mogey. A poem by Nicholas Miller. An essay by Amanda Parker.

They fused. They, hopefully are synergistic. The one adding to the other and the other adding to the one. From these pieces, on different subjects and written in different places and at different times and by different people, some of whom had never met one another all meshed to form an image of the people who find themselves writing creative pieces for fun in a liberal environment at an elite college. It involves some or all of the following: cynecism, postmodernism, atheism, a resistance of rules and procedure, and a general questioning of whether what we, as college students are doing, is really satisfactory. But these are the conclusions we have drawn and we would hate for them to limit the reading of the pieces alone. Just, as readers, we beg this one thing of you: when you read what lives below, think about what the voices above have to say about this day and age and our place. What, as a society, are we heading into, when a literary magazine hoping to capture the voice of future generations of policy-makers and important people, draws submissions like the ones we drew?

Rules by Taylor Hubbard

In summers I work at the “Rally” program in a school near my home. Don’t bother yourself about what “Rally” stands for, I don’t even know. It’s a sort of, “put your kids here parents if you don’t have the time to take care of them” kind of thing. It’s like an extension of school. During the school year Rally runs from about two to six, but it’s an all day affair during summer. When I accepted the job I had to answer some questions about “whether or not I would be alright with enforcing policy I didn’t agree with personally.” Of course my personal policy is to lie on those sorts of questions. Most child related policies are ridiculous. A child’s life is hedged in by rules. They confront them at every turn. Now, this has been the case for almost all children— ever. But even within my short lifespan I’ve seen the rules (and, more importantly, their punishments) multiply in a horrifying fashion.
I remember a time when my group and were sent to the principals office for playing a certain game. In retrospect, it does sound like a pretty horrible game. It was called “sacrifice” and involved one player clinging to the edge of the “big toy” (you all know what I mean) while the others tried to push him off. Trust me, it sounds a lot worse than it was. Anyway, somebody noticed and we were all sent to the principal’s office. No big deal. But the same incident would not blow over so easily in today’s schools.
Neither would the gigantic Gastineau Fight. I’ll probably never see the like again. I’m not exactly sure how it started, but somehow a large disturbance, which you might call a brawl, broke out between about sixty or seventy fourth to fifth grade students. Dust and gravel flew in every vector. For once the “duty-aides” were powerless. It sounds like a disaster, but it was great fun. We weren’t trying to kill each other or anything, although some got hurt. I acquitted myself well as I recall, until lardsome Daniel Anderson jumped on me. It was a great story among us for a long time, but can you imagine the consequences of such a thing today? Counseling and suspension probably; maybe expulsion for the ringleaders.
Then there was the time my brother was almost suspended— without even moving. His offense? He had a couple spent .22 caliber bullet casings in his pocket. He was in the third grade, what a dire threat to society.
I’ve worked in schools, and seen many a quite normal child banished to the happy-faces remedial counseling sessions or what have you— mostly for trifling little things. They hadn’t kept rocks in the door and snuck into school over break, they hadn’t been in a serious fight, they hadn’t “rescued” their peers from the principals office (Incidentally, I don’t recommend that, it doesn’t work too well), they hadn’t brought a pocket knife to school, hadn’t trampled and dented the roof, often enough they hadn’t really done anything. If recall, one spirited youngster was drug off for “disrespectfully” leaning on the wall.
Now, these are things I experienced, they didn’t happen very long ago. I’ve heard my dad tell much better stories. Tales of sneaking through air vents, pouring water on teachers from above, spying on the girls locker room by the same token, chemical mayhem in chemistry class, legends of the shining Archie Lo and his paddling of the principal, and the hijacking of the school intercom. And what did his peers receive for their mischief? Very little grief, I can tell you that. Bear in mind though, these things happened in a time when children were still allowed to throw snowballs.
In our day however, children are not allowed to throw snowballs. An entirely useless rule, if I do say so myself. Why? Because that law, and its brethren never actually prevent these acts from occurring. Everyone is going to throw snowballs no matter what. In effect, the rule exists only to dole out unneeded punishment. And that’s why when I’m in charge, I usually let the kids off.
Some rules simply create misery for teachers and students alike. In particular I’m thinking of a rule at Gastineau about “the hill.” The hill is a middling size terraformed hill with trees and paths etc etc. It was installed about fifteen years ago, and it’s been a great success. However, to the dismay of Gastineau staff, there is a stream that runs through the hill— a stream that unofficially determines where school grounds become public territory. For this reason, students are forbidden to cross the stream, except when I’m around. Tell me, which makes more sense: running up and down a large stretch of water trying to keep kids from hopping to the other side and back, or watching them and making sure they don’t go any further? I’m no Sisyphus.
The Rally children are, moreover, forbidden from picking up sticks. Maybe the policy makers up top have never met young boys (or girls) before, or maybe they’re just idiots. Kids will pick up sticks. And they’ll have swordfights with them. And nobody will get hurt. The way I see it, rules are supposed to reduce the need for teachers to correct kids individually on everything. Theoretically this would be a sound concept. Keyword: theoretically. In real life, you just end up sermonizing to each child individually, explaining why their failure to keep their feet dry has no doubt sealed their fate in a dead end job at Micky D’s. If everyone would cut down the rules, and spend that same effort keeping a watchful eye out for the kids, everything would be much better. I know this because this is how I operate. None of the other employees ever want to supervise the hill, because they’re afraid of the sticks and the stream.
Of course, this tactic is a double edged sword. The kids love me. They tell me, “you should be the principal,” and many similar things. But, things can go wrong, a bit.
You should all know, if you weren’t deprived as a child, how to twist up a rag and snap it at stuff. One day I was wiping off the lunch tables, and a couple little girls had stayed behind to give me a helping hand. Their idea of helping involved a good deal more mess-making than I would’ve liked. Anyway, I found myself in the presence of some wet towels and, not being able to help myself, snapped a couple volleys at the gym wall. Of course this astounded Bella and Anna, who desired to learn the ways of troublemaking. So, I taught them (even though they were terrible). And all in involved were pleased, until one of my one-up fellow workers dropped by. “What are you girls doing!,” she said. They were ineffectively slapping the wall with wet towels. Not answering the question, they continued to complicate my job with their happy reply, “Taylor taught us!” Shelly wasn’t too happy.
However, I’ve never been concerned with the overall happiness of Shelly. She’s also the woman who makes kids stay out of the water at the beach, won’t let them jump off the swing, won’t let them jump off the toy, and forbids them to take off their shoes at any time. This is at the beach mind you. She attempts to achieve compliance by showcasing a giant bucket of glass to the kids before every beach excursion. “See this?” she asks, “I found this all in one day at the beach!” This of course is a lie. I go to that beach all the time, glass is scarce. I’ve lived all my life and never seen, or heard, of anyone getting cut there. In my experience, fear is not the best way to keep children in line. That’s why while Shelly is resting her lazy ass in the shelter, and I’m the one watching the beach, kids get to do more or less what they want. But perhaps the other staff don’t know any differently. After all, they basically enforce these rules for fear of the consequences.
I’m sure that by now I’ve accumulated a great deal of disagreement in the proverbial stands, so before I go, I’ll tell you the results of my little experiment. The results were far greater than my expectations. They told me back in the day “don’t try to be friends with the kids, or they won’t listen to you,” and there’s truth to that. But I did try to be someone they would admire and feel comfortable with, and it worked. Beyond petitions for my assumption of the title of “principal” (a title which doesn’t exist at Rally, but is the highest position of authority kids are accustomed too), children would actually listen to me when I told them things. Without pretending to listen I might add. And to my astonishment, I heard many kids complaining that the other “teachers” were only yelling at them, that they didn’t like it, and that I was better. The head Rally honcho would ask children to tell her “if there was anything wrong,” but they never did. Instead they told me how they thought “somebody” should tell her.
People forget that kids are people too, even though they’re smaller. It’s like when people pretend to be astounded, “Wow! Fish can feel pain? Who knew!”, or “Breaking News: Dogs may feel jealously!” Any being higher on the chain than pond scum should already know these things. And it’s willful ignorance, or negligence, to ignore these obvious truths. Now, I haven’t compiled this evidence to make myself look good. No, I’ve compiled it to make the higher ups look bad. Why are children relying more on a rule-busting first timer instead of the experience caretakers? Something’s gone awry.

Everyone Lives There But Me by Amanda Parker

The trashcan is filled with tea bags. Overflowing. The ones on top are still wet. Saturated and dark. They stick to the few scraps of other things that have been thrown away. A paper towel. An empty, plastic honey-bear.

There are a bunch of girls in the room, all sitting in a circle. A wicker chair, a wooden stool, an old, green sofa, a rocking chair with its white paint chipping, a cushioned piano bench. The girl on the stool holds a green, glass pipe. She puts marijuana in the bowl, pushing it down lightly, gently, with her little finger. She holds it and takes a long hit. She plugs the little hole in the side with her finger and turns her other hand upside down to put the little flame from the lighter in the bowl. The flame rises, blue and yellow, feeding on the air and the mossy plant.

The girls smile at each other. She passes the pipe.

There is a record playing. A record on a record-player. The girl manning the records, sitting in the wicker chair, is named Mary. She sits cross-legged in the chair. She’s wearing cut-off jean shorts and black sneakers and a tank top with a red heart painted in the center. She doesn’t wear a bra.

The pipe is passed around the circle. The record plays. Drums and flutes and a female voice yelling indistinguishable words. The large, round, wooden coffee table is covered with ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and mugs half-filled with tea. There is heavy smoke in the room now. Weed and cigarettes and records and tea bags. And the warm light from the fake Tiffany lamps in every corner, on every side-table. And the windows, against the black, black night, like mirrors, reflect the ghosts of the girls.

It is September, 2007. And they are playing records. And they are smoking weed. And they are sitting in a circle.

The girl in the rocking chair talks about her day. She painted in the morning, but then she had to go to work and make sandwiches. When she works, she has to wear a uniform. “It’s like terrible,” she says. But now she sits in the rocking chair, also cross-legged, picking at her nails, wearing a short, plaid dress. Everyone can see her pink underwear. She seems to know this and enjoy knowing. Her name is Tina. Where the other girls have applied dark, thick eye-liner, Tina wears none. The other girls have hair that’s all chopped-up or shaved in places. Dyed at the ends or with blond roots coming in against dark brown or blue. But Tina has dirty-looking hair. Long and light brown. Her legs are furry, unshaven.

“Do you like the new album?” Stephanie, the girl on the piano bench, asks Tina as she points to the record player.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ll always love the first one, you know? I played that thing to death. But this is good too. I like it.”

“You don’t like this?” Mary says, getting up from the wicker chair. “I’ll change it if you don’t like it. I haven’t really listened to it yet so I thought I’d put it on.”

“No, I like it. I just loved that first one, you know?”

Mary changes the record.

The two girls on the couch stand up. They ask if anyone wants anything and explain that they’re going to go get something to eat. Stephanie says that there is some food here. Some peanut butter—but oh, she remembers, actually maybe there isn’t any bread. There are bananas, though. They could put peanut butter on the bananas. But the girls who had been sitting on the couch say they want to go out and get something. As they walk out the front door, Mary shrugs, rolls her eyes, and takes another hit from the pipe. The screen door slams. Stephanie shakes her head and laughs.

It is a big room. And a big house, really. A beautiful house. Old, dark wood. The girls have hung beads, and cats and skulls and stars made of paper-mâché, from the ceiling. There are paintings on the walls. Some are abstract. All colors and eyes. And others are full of detail. Faces, with creases in the eyelids and lips. Some are done on canvas, others on tinfoil. It is getting warmer in the living room and sleepy with smoke and music.

“Oh do you want to watch that film I told you about? About the art thing?” asks the girl on the stool. She’s looking at Stephanie.

Stephanie says she would and that she had forgotten all about it. She, Mary, Tina and the girl on the stool get up and walk through the kitchen. The kitchen counters are also covered in half-filled mugs with cold, soggy tea bags in the bottoms. There is a white cat on the counter by the sink. The sink is filled with dishes. There is a note taped to the refrigerator: Please don’t put tea bags in the sink!!! Stephanie grabs the white cat as she walks by and carries her into a small room, where she sits with the other girls on a futon, which is already folded out into a bed. There is a framed painting on the wall above the bed. It is a print of a snow-covered field. All the girls are smiling.

“Um, someone has to put it in.”

This makes them all laugh.

“Shit. I’ll do it. Is this it?”

“Yeah.”

The movie is short. It is about art and how people define art. It mostly consists of flashing images of doves and fires and brick walls. There is a narrator. The girls nod, agreeing with him. The narrator talks about the curves on dinosaurs’ backs and whether they can be considered art. He asks about what isn’t considered art. He does not answer a question when he asks it. Stephanie’s mouth is open a little and her brow is furrowed. Thinking. As the television flashes through different scenes, the girls’ faces light up with different colors. Blue, red, gray, blue, orange, lighter orange, blue. Once, Mary blinks exactly as the image changes and her face changes color.

The faucet in the kitchen is dripping.

Fifteen minutes later, the movie ends.

“So’d you like it?”

“Yeah. Fuck, dude. It was really good. Who made that?”

Some man who had been a guest lecturer had made it and given copies to everyone in the class. He had been very smart. Very cool. He had told them to watch out for something of his that was going to be shown in some festival.

“What festival?”

“I don’t remember.”

The girls all walk back into the living room and sit down. A few minutes later, the two girls who had left to get food walk back in the front door. One is holding a brown bag, while the other one is biting into an apple. A moment later, a new girl walks in the door with a bike. She has very short hair and a scarf wrapped around her neck. She says hi to everyone. She seems surprised to see so many people in the room. She rests her bike against the wall and goes to the kitchen. She comes back with a beer.

“I have to go to work, I guess,” says Mary, lighting a cigarette. I ask if I can walk with her back downtown and she says of course I can.

We wave goodbye to the other girls and leave the house. The screen door bangs shut behind us.

Mary works at a few different jobs, but hates this one the most. She thinks she is going to quit soon. She just wants to do her sculptures and she doesn’t want to worry about going to this job, especially so late at night. She wishes she could just be sculpting. Her boss hates her anyway, she says, because she always drops things and talks too long to the customers. One time, she tells me, she got high at work and her boss found out. But for some reason, he didn’t fire her. Mary wishes he would have. She’s afraid to quit, she laughs. She’s less afraid to be fired.

There is a casualty in her voice that I envy. I am unable to talk so freely, to make small-talk and mean it, to be so unconcerned with seeming smart, interesting. Is her confidence a result of her dyed hair and seven visible piercings? Do they convey her true self or conceal it? How long do you have to fake it before you become it? Is she trapped in her freedom of expression? Is she trapped? Is she trapped? I wonder.

She says goodbye to me downtown, at about the spot where I had met her that afternoon. She had been smoking a cigarette and holding a large book on art history when we started talking and she invited me to come hang around and smoke or something, if I felt like it. I had had no reason to say no.

Now, as the wind whips her hair up, she says that she hopes I had a good time, but doesn’t wait for me to say whether I did or not. She waves goodbye and the tattoo on her wrist becomes visible. It is dark outside, but it just looks to me like a solid, black rectangle. She turns the corner and walks away. A perfect little living thing, I think. A twinkling light of an airplane moving across the sky, putting in ear buds as she goes.

It is only about 10:30 and still very warm out. On the way to my bus stop, I see two girls on vintage-looking bicycles. Maybe Schwinns? I imagine they’re going to the house where the other girls are. I imagine that everyone lives there but me. That everyone will sit around and play records and watch short, experimental films and admire each other’s paintings and smile at each other forever.

I wish I was more interesting. by Nicholas Miller

It's just a feeling
That something's missing
Incomplete, maybe
Or wholly lacking
A goldfish swimming
Time passes by him
Eats dinner, then sleep
Then awake again
Until he swims not
But floats atop
And then soon replaced
Or maybe salmon
Against the current
Fully determined
His grand finale
Is his dying act
To live, spawn, and die
Was it worth his death
Or had he no choice
Have I?

Untitled by Mariko Helm

I do not believe in God. I don’t believe that there is a mighty power out there nor do I believe that the Earth was created by God or that we were created in God’s image.

The concept of God doesn’t even cross my mind during the average day. In fact, I won’t even think about it unless someone sticks a picture of Jesus Christ on a crucifix in front of my face and asks me whether I think that he is in fact the son of God. I wouldn’t suggest anyone to do it since a) that person would inevitably be religious and b) my answer would hardly be something they would want to hear.

One of the closest times I’ve ever gotten to acknowledging the existence of a higher power was when I wished that my soccer team would win the Seattle city soccer tournament for our 6^th year in a row. This was during my senior year of high school. It would have been a nice way to end our career as club players. We all huddled together during that last championship game, our faces flushed from the exertion and the biting cold. I remember I couldn’t feel my legs or my fingers. We all held hands as we kneeled during the shootout. Unfortunately we didn’t win that last year. And no I do not blame that on God.

I listen to my friends’ point of view when it comes to religion. I respect the decision to believe or not to believe. I have listened to friends as they would tell me what their relationship with God has meant to them while we walked around a shopping mall. I have been told that those who do not believe in God will not go to heaven. But I think that there is something entirely wrong with that concept.

I believe that religion is a way to accept the fact that we are all going to die. I believe that it comforts people to believe that we will go to a realm where we will exist forever as angels within the pearly white gates. It definitely appeals more than the alternative. The thought of being buried seven feet under with nothing but our best attire and whatever else our offspring find necessary is hardly a cheery way to say goodbye to our lovely yet short time on good old Mother Earth.

I prayed to God was when my neighbor was diagnosed with cancer. I prayed that he recover. But once his cancer was considered terminal, he decided it was too much and became another illegal solicitor and contented receiver of assisted suicide. And no I do not blame that on God.

When I hope for anything, my wishes are not directed towards God. They are more based and dependent on the mercy of the future. I don’t expect anyone, may it be the next person or God, to positively affect my life. I am not dependent on anyone to bring about my well-being.

I like to consider myself a realist. In my reality there is no God nor do I think that people are always inherently good. It disgusts me how easily dismissed people are based upon their sexual orientation or their beliefs or preferences when it comes to the miracle of birth. There is no one in the world that can impose their beliefs upon another person or group of people unless it is someone with a God-like ranking of power. And if the supposed God Himself chooses to actually do so, then that is no god that I would want to believe in.

I remember when a close friend of mine tried to kill herself. I prayed to God as I wrestled the scissors away from her that night, begging Him to make her stop. Begging Him to make her realize how amazing she was. But soon the incidents began increasing and instead of scissors, it would sometimes be a bottle of pills that I would find in her backpack and confiscate or a suicide note that a friend would catch a glimpse of in her notebook. The situation got so out of hand that she was kicked out of school and told to get some help. And no I do not blame that on God.

It has always fascinated me how as kids we deify our parents. We shine this sheen of light upon them and in our eyes they continue to glow until we turn twelve or thirteen and realize that, in fact, they have their weaknesses and their faults. It is unfair. We grow up with this mental picture of our parents’ perfection, but once we hit adolescence we realize that that perfection is just a front and that what lies behind those perfectly white teeth are harsh words and a mind that doesn’t know how to filter out the kindness from the rudeness. It’s a cruel awakening to arise sleepily from a peaceful childhood to a tumultuous adolescence: one that requires staying away from the house at times because you know that once you arrive home, the words will never cease to fly.

My friends tell me that they talk to God. That He listens to them and that they truly do have conversations with Him. I respect that. I respect their beliefs and I will not question them. But if they are able to talk to Him and I have repeatedly failed to hear His ‘voice’ then apparently we are on completely different wavelengths: I am on FM radio and He is on AM and we’ve never overlapped.

I was diagnosed with a certain blood disease when I was in high school. A disease that has no name because it is the first time doctors have ever seen such a thing: a combination of Von Willebrand’s Disease and Thrombocytopenia where my blood doesn’t clot well or have the normal count of platelets. Having believed myself healthy for the majority of my life, I suddenly found myself visiting the doctor’s regularly, getting my blood drawn on a weekly basis and having to routinely check my body for any excessive amounts of bruising. I prayed to God that I would just be healthy again. But once the doctors realized that neither my platelet count nor platelet coagulation would ever be normal, I learned to deal with it. And no I do not blame that on God.

Biological issues are interesting things. Though I have never found the sciences to be my forte or my main center of interest, I liked how straightforward it was. There were always explanations for everything. In chemistry, if a certain chemical mixes with another chemical, we can deduce what the result will be. In biology, if a cow mates with a cow, we don’t get a lion, we get a cow. So what was the point of God?

Let me rewind here. I have been told that God listens to us and if we pray long enough, things may come true. But evidently one can skip asking for anything biological to change. It is not as if God can suddenly insert in my veins an innumerable amount of functioning platelets and suddenly be cured. It is not as if God can suddenly walk up to my friend and tell her to not be depressed and ‘Whoop-de-doo!’ stop being suicidal. I wish I considered myself a pessimist because then I could actually believe that this was true and the whole purpose of writing this essay would have gone to wrought.

My grandmother fell ill from colon cancer when I was seven years old. She was lying in a room filled with her crying sons and daughters. I never knew a single room could hold so much grief. My mother had ushered me into the room to say my final goodbyes. I told my grandmother for the last time that I loved her. And as I turned my back to leave, tears streaming down my cheeks, she whispered that she loved me too. I prayed to God that those wouldn’t be her last words. I half-expected her to jump up in her bed, yell “Gotcha!” and start laughing, tears streaming down those beautiful blue eyes of hers, crinkling with mirth. But it was just a figment of my imagination and she passed away the next morning, having said her finals words to me. And no I do not blame that on God.

My mother told me that sometimes she still has conversations with my grandmother. That sometimes when she’s really stressed she would talk to her and she would comfort my mother and tell her that everything was going to be okay. I dislike this. I did not approve of the fact that my mother was talking to dead people nor did I approve of the fact that I secretly was dying to see whether I could converse with her too. I tried the following evening. But of course I could not hear her voice, only the beat of my own heart as I felt as if my being was going to be split in two from the agony. I’ve never let myself believe such a thing again.

After my grandmother died, I became mute. Not all day and all night, but when I was by myself, I wouldn’t even think. When my grandmother had walked into a room, it was like Christmas came early. She had been bright and charming and warm but she also had that something about her that just made you want to be her best friend. Her confidante. It was as if everyone who met her wanted to be the steward of her smile and the protector of her laugh because she glowed beauty. And what broke me the most was that she had planned to move to Seattle to be close to me. I felt robbed.

My grandmother’s death is the reason I don’t believe in God. I lied when I said earlier that I did not blame that on Him. I acknowledge that it seems childish and immature, but take it or leave it. The possibility of my having faith in any superior power had been shattered long before I even really learned about the concept of God or religion. It had been broken because I could not possibly believe that the life of someone so pure could be cut off at the early age of 62. And it sounds anticlimactic, I realize. It sounds as if there should have been a deeper reason for my denouncement of any attachment to a religion. But as it goes, that event, though now accompanied by a few others, stands as one of the most painful moments I have ever experienced. And neither a reader of this essay or God can say, in any way, that that is not a justified reason.

A Thought Which Has Surged Since David Foster Wallace Killed Himself -by Noah Mogey

When she told me she was not happy I asked why and she told me she did not know. I thought I did so I told her it probably had something to do with her maturing and that she was realizing the negative side of maturing which involves the realization that she can't take her best friends' seriously anymore and that so much of what everyone does is petty and ridiculous and should not be taken seriously. But it is taken seriously and it is petty and ridiculous.

My friend Amanda was depressed and became even more depressed when she read your story Good Old Neon. She told me that Ernest Hemingway believed happiness to be the rarest thing in intelligent people. I want to be happy and to die a white haired dinosaur who goes on cruises and finds solace in micromanaged prepackaged entertainment and who takes seriously who he is and looks back on his life and feels it was worth it and was noble but I also want to make things and to see who I am and who other people are and get it and not feel like an asshole. But Ernest Hemingway shot himself in the head and David Foster Wallace hung himself¹. Last Friday, I sat silently in someone else's dining room eating a burrito and now a week later it occurs to me that I should have cried. It isn't a choice.

1. Last Friday Charlie sent me a text message that read dude DFW died and at the time I was sitting in at the dinner table which I promptly left and ran upstairs and in a trance searched the internet ignoring people and my burrito dinner cooling downstairs. Two or three years ago I read the newspaper and in it was a ten page article about Roger Federer [N.B.:August 20^th, 2006, precisely. Federer won Wimbledon a bit before that. He beat Nadal badly. He looked like he knew what he was doing and Nadal looked like he lifted a lot of weights. Nadal beat him this year.] whose talent I thought merited the time and because I like it and because the writer seemed silly when I later followed my mother dutifully to the library I grabbed one of your books and that night pruning in the bathtub I lapped up the terrors of luxury and state fairs. In november two thousand six I bought Infinite Jest because it was long and heavy and these things impress me. I love to read books and I love them and I love reading and I think that the catalyst for that lies quietly somewhere in your footnotes but I hate that I hate myself for liking books and I hate that I cant write this without hating myself the narcassist.