The voice that soothes the soul The eyes as deep as the ocean The face reflects love, sadness, and loneliness, And the attitude like nobody else’s. I listen, I watch, I admire I want you to be here with me Sitting on the couch, side-by-side. I want to light your cigarette And listen to you singing your songs To me, in the darkness of the night In the lonely room for two With some red wine in our glasses And the youth to share with each other Until the sun comes up, and as the daylight breaks in And we are both tired and happy Falling asleep next to each other In the room filled with love, passion, and sex, Where the time stands still, and the lonely Cigarette buds sitting in the ashtray As we embrace each other on the king-size bed And there is nobody else, and there is no tomorrow. It is us, right here, right now, and until We are together and in love, and we have Something only we can understand. We have something in common. We have us and our cigarettes and wine, And my books and your records and our passion. We have it all at this moment.
Sometimes, we all wish to go back in time and relive certain moments. I yearn to experience the rush and thrill of my younger days, even though they weren’t necessarily the best days of my life. I’m not interested in returning to that time because it has been difficult, but instead, revisiting how I saw the world then, the places I frequented, the people I used to know, and all the things I did or didn’t do. I want to understand how I managed to get through that difficult period in my life while searching for who I am. I want to experience those sparks of hope that ignited me back when I struggled mentally and professionally. I long to regain my beginner’s mindset in my mid-late twenties and see the world with fresh eyes once again.
I discovered something new about myself back then in 2016. 2017 continued in the spirit of an inspired writer who didn’t write much, but there was so much inspiration in me that I didn’t know what to do with it. I was overwhelmed by it, in a way. I loved being overwhelmed with all those new experiences and thoughts that occupied my mind. I was an inspired young writer then; I wrote a little at the time, mostly poetry. I wrote it on my phone often, as it came to me while smoking a cigarette in the parking lot. I felt great, cool, and one of a kind, seeing myself as a poet. Nothing of this sort had ever happened to me before. The list of poems grew over time. My reading list grew over time. I wanted to be like Charles Bukowski, my writing hero. That depraved old man inspired my young confused mind so much that after reading just a few of his poems, I knew that this was what I wanted to do. I looked around at things, people, and events around me, and poetry lines were composed inside my head. Some of them I captured, and many of them were lost somewhere deep inside my mind and down the history lane. What I got then was something I couldn’t even imagine doing before. I, a nobody, a confused dumb kid, could become a writer and a poet. That felt really novel and fucking great. That was a pivotal point in my life, one of the few that laid the ground for my writing for years.
I remember how and when I wrote my first poetry. I was on my bed in my mom’s house, in my room, with my MacBook Pro laptop. It was a lame and pretentious poem, but it was the first one, and many more followed shortly after. You can’t be judging that shit too hard. It gave me something to work with and to work for and eventually launched me as a writer. Everything great once started as nothing, many times as a mistake, and many times as an accident. This was one of the most remarkable accidents that ever happened to me. Still, I haven’t recovered. I like it this way. I want to write. Writing helped me over the years while dealing with life and its pitfalls. Jobs failed me, and I failed jobs; relationships failed me, and I failed relationships; people, in general, failed me and failed many people in my life, but I’ve learned my lessons, and I continued to write throughout all that time. Writing became my own very effective therapy. I woke up early in the morning, pulled out my laptop, and started to write. I often did not know what I would write about, but somehow ideas came, words formed, words turned into sentences, and sentences turned into pages of written material. Somehow I ended up with over two hundred poems and a handful of prose material, and I had to do something about it. And I did.
I revisited all the poems I ever wrote and collected them into my first poetry collection, “My Poems My Soul.” I came up with the name based on a poem with the same title. It sounded very poetic to me. It sounded like something Bukowski would have written or named one of his poems. I wasn’t trying to imitate Bukowski or copy his style, but so much of his influence poured out of me and into my writing that I couldn’t help it. I heard Bukowski’s voice in my head as I was writing my poems. It felt unusual. I felt like Bukowski a lot of times. I was reading his poetry and listening to his novels and short stories on Audible, fueling my creative mind and soul. Little did I know then that all that fascination would result in me publishing my own books years later. I self-published “My Poems My Soul” in 2020 during the pandemic. My second collection of mostly short stories and some new poems, called “Nicetown,” came out in late 2022. Today I am a real writer, not just some wannabe romantic with a temporary inspiration, but an actual published writer with a good amount of my work in the literary world. I also created a blog where my original writing experiments were posted. That blog helped me stay in shape and continue my regular writing routine. I knew I did that primarily for myself, and if other people find that interesting, that would be even better. But it all was done for a selfish me to keep me at work, keep me writing, writing, and posting regularly. This is why I stayed more productive over the last three-four years. This is how “Nicetown” book came up to be. This was a collection of all that blog writing, primarily short stories and some better poems I published since I created my blog in late October 2019.
Getting one thing started randomly on my bed with my laptop eventually launched me to become who I am today. I am not famous but rather very much infamous. Fame is great, but I the lack of it doesn’t bother me much. I haven’t achieved any accomplishments or recognition, my books don’t sell, and nobody but a handful of people in my circle know that I write. But that is ok. I have patience. I still think that the best is yet to come. I have yet to publish something that would eventually resonate with the general public and get my name out there. I am not an attention whore, but let’s face it, all writers are and want to be one and are continuously searching for and hoping for all the attention they can get. Most writers are egoistic, self-centered, and self-indulging assholes; all that writing is not there for no reason. We all want to be famous, great, and beloved, and we all want people to admire us, praise our books, recite our words, make movies based on our books, give us prizes, kiss our assess, and make us invincible and untouchable and superior in that fashion.
I don’t know what I want to do next in my life, hanging here, staying on the edge of the cliff, at the crossroads, or whatever the fuck I am today. I know one thing for sure, I will continue to write, even if that is just for myself, even if nobody in the world will ever see or read anything I wrote. I remember how excited and obsessed I was with the Californication show, watching it for the first time back in 2016. Based on the image of my beloved Charles Bukowski, the main character, Hank Moody, was a great visual of a modern writer with some complicated behavior and dealing with his struggles, but mainly inspiring me even more to write. I saw a writer who wasn’t a fucking bore. Hank Moody was a real man, a great writer, and he hated all that fame shit and the consequences of it, which continued to follow him throughout the show. That show was so great, funny, witty, and personal to me that even today, in 2023, I am still watching it on repeat, getting entertained, getting a good laugh, and learning something new each time. It is still, in many ways, a highly relatable show in both the writing and social world we live in today.
I discovered that show when I was going through the worse times in my life, mentally and professionally. I found my great escape in that show. It was not just entertaining but also a great escape from the brutal reality I was living in. It felt like the stars aligned for me back then in 2016, and everything I got my hands on, watched, listened to, or read let me into this new life, a life of a writer, the unlimited, crazy world of literature with all its complications and struggles. I can’t remember another time when all the puzzle pieces fell together for me and showed me a new life, a new perspective, and a world I hadn’t seen before. I am grateful to destiny, whoever it is, and a stupid random accident or sequence of events that got me writing. I am happy where I am and looking forward to a better future. The longer I stayed in this writing world, the more great things happened for me, the more I could do and create and write, and this new universe kept building up and around me. I am happy in this place. The real writing will stay. Real writing will live forever.
There are moments when I feel like I’ve exhausted my creative sources. The well has dried up. I don’t know what else to do. I sit and fucking wonder, and nothing will come to me. No ideas. No creativity sparks. I just sit there with my mind blank, blanking like a motherfucker. This must be resistance. That bitch is undoubtedly in the way, keeping me away from my writing. I have to work. I have to get something down. I have to keep going. Fuck resistance, I think, as I open a new document and start typing my useless thoughts in some weird, chaotic order. According to Mr. Pressfield, the only way to beat resistance is to show up every day and do what you have to do regardless of how you feel, how much you produce, and what kind of fucking day of the week it is. One sentence is good. One sentence is much better than nothing. One sentence written down shows you’ve overcome resistance, and you showed up, and you’ve written something, anything. That matters the most; no matter how strong that fucking resistance is, you have to work against it. Once that becomes the habit, you shouldn’t care about anything else in the fucking world. You know what to do, and you show up daily or regularly to work on your craft or whatever you’re working on. Why am I reciting Pressfield? I don’t know. I guess this is the main lesson I’ve learned from reading his book “The War of Art,” which inspired me in so many ways. And secondly, this is the time when I am really struggling with my creative thoughts and my new creative writing, and he’s the only one who provides writers and creative souls with a legit solution. It seems like nothing else or nothing new to write to me about. And the time goes by, one month after another, and there is no new material, and that fucking sets me back. I get used to producing nothing; hence, I produce nothing over time. And I start looking for reasons why I haven’t written and what has been on my way not writing. I am fucking looking for excuses while not trying to do the work.
I woke up at five am this dark and cold Sunday morning last September 2022. I had a plan. I needed to wake up early to spend some alone time on my writing, with no distractions. I’ve been slacking too much lately. I better cut the bullshit out before it becomes another annoying habit of mine. So, here I am. I am back to the old me. I woke up early, and I was ready to ramble. I am ready to write. I remember days when I wasn’t even thinking about writing. I opened my laptop first thing in the morning and started to type, and the words came to me effortlessly. That happened multiple days and weeks in the raw, and at one point, I thought, holy shit, I got it. I am on the holy writing trail again. I’ve cracked the code. My excitement lasted until that habit was put on hold several times, then life kicked in, and I was out of the loop again. And then, I was fucking lost yet again. Then, I struggled with getting my routine back in order, getting my stupid mind back to work, and getting my creative juices flowing again. It is hard to start over too many times. It hasn’t gotten old yet, but it is like fuck; I’ve been here before, and now I have to go through it just one more fucking time. Life isn’t perfect, and it is tough to build a routine or a steady schedule, and shit always gets in the way. I have to provide and be here for my family. That is priority number one for me. Everything else comes second.
I watched the new Elvis movie last night. There it was, the perfect example of how one great, super successful, and world-famous Elvis sacrifices his fucking personal life and his family life for his fucking show and career. He seemed to have all the right intentions to provide for his family, but in the process, the family was not the priority anymore. Not having a normal life. Not having any family nearby to care for him. He was not even able to leave the fucking country for his International tour. He stayed here. He was committed to his act. He was performing and performing fucking well. The show must go on regardless of the misery that went along with it. He’s sold his soul in Vegas. That fucking schedule and even dedication will destroy anyone. There was a chance to take a break, stop for a while, clean up, return to his family, start all over, and live to a hundred years, but it didn’t happen. He didn’t want it. Once he was on the move, it was until the wheels came off. The wheels did come off but sadly, at forty-two years of age, dying in such fucking misery. Even for Elvis, it was a too sad way to go away like that. His priority was his art. The family was not. My priority is my family. Then all the other bullshit in its random fucking order. But I am dedicated, and I am not self-destructive. I am continuing on. I keep up the good fight. And I will be writing regardless of how slow or good or bad. I will be doing this because this is what I love to do, and it makes me feel fucking great.
I have been into J.D. Salinger’s writing a lot in the last five years. I read all of his, at least, popular books. I am sure there is more writing of his somewhere, maybe not all on Amazon. I developed a deep personal connection with “The catcher in the rye.” A true classic novel that never gets old. There are several good reasons why this novel resonated with me and so many others. I think this novel based on its writing style, theme, and rebellious protagonist, could be a great and, in a way, helpful read for all ages. Salinger combined all his Holden stories in this novel and centered them around this young and troubled fellow. Holden is an example of everyone searching for purpose in life during our formative years while searching for himself, going through some shit while voicing his thoughts and philosophy and asking questions about simple things that have a much deeper meaning. Young folks may enjoy this novel because it is fucking interesting to read and learn about this young fellow going through something during the challenging teenage period. This time in life is tricky because as one learns more about life and slowly gets introduced to adulthood, one may dismiss the adult world as phony and stupid and many things adults do as unnecessary and without a good reason. Being young and angry at the world, rebelling against the social norms and structures and institutions, dealing with depression and stress and social issues, indulging in bad habits to escape reality, and so much more. It is a protagonist that most young folks would like to be or are, in a way, already like Holden.
I read the Catcher in my late twenties and learned a lot, even more, when I re-read it several times in my early to mid-thirties. This novel has some hidden passages that shed light on the philosophy of life from a teacher Holden was visiting. The drunk fucking teacher once talking to Holden, in his drunken state, voiced pretty much the central wisdom in that novel, what it is to be an adult and what it takes to be a man. “The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for the cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.” Holden might not be entirely ready for this wisdom, as any youth exposed to such serious talks might not get it the first time. It usually comes to most younger folks later in life. As it did come to me later in my life. I wish I’d read this novel back in my teens. But I am happy to have discovered it in my late twenties and early thirties. At different points in my life, I found something very true and relatable in the “Catcher in the rye” novel.
Holden’s philosophy of being the “Catcher in the rye” is very interesting when his younger sister asks him what he wants to be in life. Even though it seems like he has no idea what he’s talking about, his response made a lot of sense to me as a father. Realizing how phony the adult world is, Holden wants to prevent children from falling into it. He realizes how great and innocent young people are, looking at and admiring his little sister. Holden wants her to avoid falling into the phony adult life journey he’s going through, as well as all adults are. He wants to protect and catch these little children from falling off the cliff. Salinger’s idea of protecting innocent youth from the mean and unjust adult world is described this way in this novel. It took me a few years to really understand what he meant. When I became a father, I finally got it. It was clear why protecting children from falling off that cliff and into the adult world was crucial for Salinger and Holden.
Once on the playground, I saw my two and half-year-old son playing with other kids. My son ran around among all these other kids, some older, some bigger than him, some more crazy than others, and my little son was up there with them trying to be part of it. He was up there on top of this pretty tall playground construction with all the tubes, pathways, and other shit. I was watching him from the ground. I saw him out there. He was shy and just looked around, watching other kids. Sometimes, he would smile if he saw something they did that was funny to him. Sometimes he imitated what others did as he walked on top of the bridge up there or crawled through the tubes and climbed ladders. I worried he might fall. I worried other kids could push him out. I felt like snatching him out of there and taking him away from all of these kids and that fucking slider. I wanted to hold him close because he might get hurt out there. I felt like my heart was being torn apart. I did not know what to do. But I knew one thing, I loved this child more than anything in the world, and I wanted to protect him and keep him safe and close for as long as possible. I knew I was not able to help him then and there. He was there on his own. I called out his name, but he didn’t see me. I saw him looking down from the top of that structure, smiling, enjoying his moment. He did not see me or hear me, but he was up there with all these kids living his life. I realized then that he will not always be close to or near me as he has been for his first three years of life. As he grows up, he will be more independent, living his life, making decisions, getting into trouble, and making things happen. I will not always be there. I will not always be able to help him. Eventually, he will fall over that “cliff” from his childhood and become an adult. Eventually, his innocent youth will be over. Eventually, he will become a father and probably feel the same about his children. The fact that I would lose him to his own adult life made me feel sad.
For an older reader, the “Catcher in the rye” book can also be a fun read because it will remind them of how it was and how it felt when they were young. Holden’s voice in this book is the voice of youth. That semi-fictional character from the early fifties still sounds relevant and accurate today in the 2020s. Salinger writes the story from Holden’s perspective, but he has himself in his mind. I believe that Salinger and olden are very similar people with similar ideas and attitudes. Salinger combined all these ranges of emotions, themes, and ideas, which are relatable to just about anybody alive. This is why this book never ran out of print, and this is why this book is still popular so many years later and will continue to be relevant because it mentions the questions and issues that are part of being a human. Everyone is closely familiar with, younger or older, regardless. I am now seeing more and more and feeling more and more about the world outside and my three-year-old son and how I wished he always stayed this little and innocent and not fucked with that utter world with its nonsense and bullshit. Salinger felt that himself and described that in this Holden protagonist and a similar character in his other works. I cannot think of a more likable example in the literature that has been so popular and so prominent and appealed to so many people over the decades.
From the moment I read the first few pages of the Catcher book, I felt like, damn, this writing is something. It is written in Holden’s voice as he deals with his life and has all these different experiences, which help the reader see life and its phoniness from a teenager’s perspective. The writing itself is Salinger’s typical stream of consciousness which comes from the first person, from the protagonist. The language that he uses is the language of the youth. It is meant to sound that way. It sounds and reads pretty cool, even after it was cool to talk like that back in the fifties. This simple, casual, and sometimes even dull language is easily accessible and relatable to most people. Writing this way helps to deliver the critical message better. And it did, as we can see over the years. On a personal level, I do relate to Holden a lot. I felt like that many times growing up. I always wanted to be in that pristine, careless state, doing things that I liked to do, knowing that getting older would require shifting priorities and getting educated and getting a job, and getting married and dealing with like like all adults do. I wasn’t necessarily against it, but I knew the fun would be over soon.
When I was in my mid to late twenties, I had accomplished half of the required program that I had on my mind. I got my education, married, and worked jobs, but I wasn’t happy. The more I lived and experienced life, the more I knew how fucking rough and ridiculous it became. I read this book when I was twenty-nine, and at that point in my life, I was on the edge of being lost. I was on the edge of switching my life from a careless young lad to a young adult who had to support his family. I knew that many people my age were pretty damn fucking set up and organized and were much further in life than I was. I was always behind on everything. The book, even by accident, was read with quiet enthusiasm, and it felt very relatable and entertaining. I was about to be fired from one job, and I was working on landing a new job. My wife and I lived with my in-laws, on our last dollar, with no good prospects for the near future. I wanted to become a writer, but I knew I couldn’t just drop out of the professional world because we would die in poverty. I was trying to do my writing in my personal free time while making a paycheck to support my family. As I wasn’t any good or prolific writer, this lifestyle wasn’t a problem to maintain. The problem was that more and more, I felt like I hated the office job, corporate job, or any fucking job. I knew how things usually turn around, and I knew that no matter the excitement, in the beginning, every fucking job would be turned around to be a disappointment. Sooner or later, either by my or my company’s request, this fucking professional journey would end. Whatever I’ve been working on so hard wouldn’t matter to anyone anymore, nor to me. So, the question that I faced so many times was, why in the fuck do I need to suffer like that all the time? Why wasn’t I dedicated to doing what I love to do? Why wasn’t I writing?
There I was, feeling like Holden, unwilling to work, feeling down and experiencing the phony, dull fucking outside world, trying to escape it somehow by running away. Holden is raising the same question. Why bother with the real phony world if you could just run away and live somewhere further and outside of these typical social circles? He knew at an early age that adult life is not easy, and there is a lot of unfairness and bullshit involved, and he refused to be part of it. However immature, his thoughts always focused on little things, which showed how big his inner world was. He cares where the duck goes when it gets cold and the lake in the park freezes. He cares about the young children being fall off the cliff. He feels sorry for the poor nuns on the bus ride and gives them money. He loves his little sister more than life and cares for her. When he spoke about being a catcher in the rye and protecting children, he meant his little sister on his mind. He’s not interested in education, like probably 90% of young people, but he doesn’t seem like a guy who refuses to know things. He’s trying to acquire information, talk to people, and he knows many things as he’s coming along. His rebellious soul is always looking for something, for some purpose, that would come to him later in life.
We all want to live great lives and have everything we need, but we refuse to deal with the consequences and the struggles which make many people miserable. It’s sometimes good, however. This is how one learns about life, what it means, and how to make it all work. This is how wisdom arrives. This is how people learn about their purpose and the important little things which matter the most. And the main thing is that life is a journey, and everyone has their own. Some people are lucky early in that journey, and some later on. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the journey itself. It’s time to enjoy it. It’s time to live now. It’s time to enjoy every little moment because there will be no second times. Prioritize what you love to do and do it. Enjoy it. Enjoy all the great books and writing we have and learn from them. Books will help make one’s life more enjoyable, and the phony world outside will always be that way.
I sit here at the famous hotel, top floor, overlooking Venice Beach, California. The balcony window is open, and the ocean breeze is coming inside. I can feel it, smell it, and I can breathe again fully I always wanted to be here. I always wanted to be in the City of Angels, create here, live here, and be part of it all. The smell of the beach and the ocean is always refreshing and alive. It makes me want to just be there, just lay there, watch, and breathe. It makes my soul tick. It brings in the Lada Del Ray melancholy with it. I can imagine Lana sitting next to me smoking cigarettes and singing sad songs. There are lights from the street reflected on the walls, and the noise of the boulevard below is heard. Cars are going back and forth at the night, the people roaming around the City that never sleeps. It is a dark and warm night tonight, and I always have my Red Hot Chili Peppers music on. They are California to me in sound. The fake beautiful people and the palms are California to me in actuality. Spiritually, I think it is a place for the lost to be found, find whatever is missing, create something new, grow, and achieve. It is the mecca for so many lost souls, many of whom really found themselves there. The first that comes to mind are all those actors who came over with nothing, and the minute they scored a successful movie, the big payday came around and then some more and they are never the same. This is a life that I believe too many are wishing for, but it is not an easy life to have, live, and maintain. It is a complicated and challenging task. Honestly, with all the time trying to become somebody else for money, one eventually becomes another version of themselves for life. People lose their own entity over time, and they just play the Hollywood game for the rest of their lives. They want to be part of it, be invited to the parties, get roles in the movies, get offers, make money, and spend money while selling their soul. That dirty fake acting soul is worth not more than any other man’s soul even less famous. Almost always thinking of California, I can imagine rich fucking movie stars with tons of money, huge houses, big fancy cars, and busty women with a shit ton of plastic surgeries. When I think about California, I think about John Fante, who came out there when it was fucking dark, and it was nothing around. When the wind would blow a ton of fucking desert sand into your room along with an ocean breeze. I imagine Fante sitting in that dirty, cheap hotel room on Bunker Hill, hungry, poor, with no money or prospects, but typing with a cheap fucking typewriter. Writing meant a different thing to him than it is now to 99.9% of douchebags with a laptop, just like myself, who blog or who are self-made-stupid-ass-fucking-reporters, etc. This used to be a place of nothing but the fucking desert. Many new-coming lunatics come over here to find and build their new life and build their American dream. Fante sat there in that chair hungry and desperate, writing letters to his mother in Colorado, asking for a few dollars so he could pay the rent or send the story out or buy himself something to eat. At the same time, he worked on his American dream. There was so much passion this guy had, and like so many others who came to California for the same reason, to make it out here. In life, it always takes too much of your soul, best years, and best health before you can actually achieve something. Before you can truly say, ok, I am fucking feeling pretty good about myself and my accomplishments today. Today’s idea of getting there and becoming the next best fucking actor or actress is very much a delusional thought process. Fante had to eat shit all his life to at least partially make it work for him, even if it meant writing movie scripts full-time instead of books. John Fante’s books will always be in my home library. I will cherish them always, remembering him as a writer who wrote so simply, so early on, with so much passion and authentic and true feelings that went almost unnoticed until his death. Charles Bukowski is my association with California in a poetic way. Charles Bukowski is the reason I write. Charles Bukowski is the reason I know who John Fante was. Nobody in the whole fucking California is more famous for his raw, authentic, graphic, and very realistic poetry of the time and place than Bukowski. People worldwide learn about California, skid raw, horse racing, drinking, and drunken shenanigans from reading Bukowski’s poetry and prose. His writing throughout his entire life was full of it. The never-ending drinking and drama with the women in question were the two major topics across his career and life that always played a key role everywhere Bukowski went. He wasn’t afraid to stay fucking hungry, drunk, jobless, hopeless. Still, with all that passion for writing and all that passion for becoming a famous writer, he kept writing and creating and eventually did become successful. Success felt like a tremendous reward to Bukowski even in the later years of his life. The man who had been one inch away from skid raw now had a wife, house, a new car, a movie based on his life, a bunch of new books, a great bottle of wine for dinner, and everything else the dirty old man can wish for. It wasn’t a shot or easy way out for him, but he still somehow did it. He made his American dream come true. The dozens of his books on my bookshelves represent my love and admiration for his writing. Drunk Bukowski roaming from bar to bar, from a hotel room to a hotel room, from one shitty job to another, trying to find the right place, trying to find the good life, the peace of mind, the right woman while always getting involved in some weird shit which came up with his poems or part of his prose. There was so much Bukowski in California that I don’t think it is possible to ever take him out of there. I am not even going to bring up the music bands taking their origins from California. It will take the whole fucking night and probably many books, not just a few pages to cover everything. California had it all and had it all great, too good. I am not sure that the good is still there, it could be, but we maybe don’t see or don’t know much about it. The good could’ve left that place a long time ago, as so many people did recently when the poor and the homeless started to run the town. The life changed, the dream was crushed for so many, and so many plans were deemed to never come true or be born in the first place. It is sad to see the beach with primarily lonely or homeless people. It is hard to see people angry at each other and only being pleased when they need to impress somebody to make their next move, get the part, win the role, the contract, you fucking name it. It is said to see the place of so many dreams coming true and so much talent and creativity going to hell faster than hell itself. California, where everything began for America, is now a place of survival for the fake egoistic people. On the other hand, a movement of homeless and poor, an invasion of the overpriced properties with those who didn’t make it or didn’t want to make anything… Everything so glamorous and lavish becomes sad, grey, and doomed. It does feel like I don’t have a partner and my only friend is in the City I live in, the City of Angeles, lonely and as fucked up as I am, and together we cry. Red Hot Chili Peppers got it all right in those lyrics. They are so California. There are a lot of illusions and bullshit in and about California for so many people. But there always is a real side to each story. The real side to the story is that not everything that glitters is gold. Not everything that has been portrayed to be so great and beautiful actually is so. The real side also is that I have never been to California, and there is no hotel, no ocean, and no breeze where I am hailing from. It is actually cold, dark, and gloomy in the suburbs of the East Coast. But that was my dream though for quite a while. I always wanted to come to California. I always wanted to californicate, whatever that means. I am writing about my dream and how I imagine and associate my California life. What would I feel like? What would I do there? I would’ve wanted to come over and be like Fante, a man without a dime behind his soul but so much to say through my writing. Still, there is a small room for rent, and there is a typewriter or a laptop these days. I sit and write like crazy for days and nights, and then I try to sell it somewhere so I can continue to do what I love and live off of my passion, my writing. There is a laptop that never goes to sleep, busy processing words. Like myself, there are cigarette butts all over the table and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. I am typing away, writing my thoughts and words as they all come to me. I create the writing that also creates something else for somebody. It creates a new made-up world that everyone can wander in and be part of. Welcome to my shindig, folks. This is the cycle that never ends. This is the life I wanted to have but no longer can. This would’ve been the story of the next greatest American novelist, poet, and writer, John Loraine, ladies and gentlemen. It feels great. It almost feels real for a moment. I can imagine myself living there, in the City of Angeles, and being part of that mess. The place is hardly changing a person. In most cases, the person changes depending on their surroundings, just like all those successful actors in Hollywood. They will never be the same regular folks they once were before they came over there. Maybe I will never be the same once I am relocated to California? Perhaps I would be stuck there and not be able to write anything? What if that City eats me alive and I am forever lost in its gloom? What if the writing does not require one to move anywhere? Why would you go anywhere else as long as you can get a quiet place to sit down and write? There are so many hours in the day, so many words to write, and so many writers and books to read. I think it is just the right time to sit down and write whatever you feel like and think about and whatever comes through. Bukowski once wrote, “what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.” Amen.
Times New Roman is a perfect font. I don’t know who determined that, but it is what they say, mostly a widely used font for writing. I write like that. Why the fuck not? I am walking through the clouds and writing my prose and poems like nobody’s business in this crazy fucking world of ours. Sometimes it feels like it is the end of the next closest thing to it as we can get, but then the next day, it’s alright. We’ll power through. We’ll live. We’ll write more books, songs, and poetry and create even more disparity in the universe because we are the people, and that’s what we do. That’s why we are here on this planet to fuck things up and then think about how to solve this. Cigarettes taste good even if they kill. Even if they fucking stink, we still smoke them passionately and on impulse because our bodies crave that chemical shit and our bodies need more of it. The hangovers are harder than ever as you age as you get older, and who am I to tell you? You should know that. It is a fact. My hangovers were so much more severe right after passing thirty. Is it the age that is not keeping up with the young spirit, or is it our desperate bodies that cannot handle that shit anymore? I am not a doctor, don’t ask me. I am just a writer, an addict, a drinker, a family man, a working man, and a writer nobody knows. I just write and spit and shit and try to help myself and hopefully others somehow. It is late March, and it is still fucking cold, and that fact alone is depressing as anything else is depressing in this life. I am sick of depression and being depressed. Fuck depression, I want love, I want crazy passionate sex, I want a beer with a cigarette and have no regret tomorrow or ever. I want to live my life how I want it, not how society, the church, or the establishment wants me to live my life. Why don’t they worry about their own shit? Why don’t they worry about saving this world from other things and problems? I am not a pessimist but rather an optimistic realist. The reality these days is not what anyone wants to live through. It seems like there isn’t much to do to save this fucking and completely insane world of ours. We are on the verge of world war three, nuclear war, a major fucking world pandemic, chemical war, and the war on genders and equality and race and veganism, you name it. I don’t know what to do with all of it, and neither do you. Trust me, you can have your opinions, as can I, but who really gives a fuck and who really is helping to solve anything? All we do is deepened that hole in the normality of our existence. I wish I could save the world. I wish I could write like Hemingway. I wish I could have the largest balls of them all. I wish I never spotted playing guitar. But I don’t, and more than likely, neither do you. So we just live our lives day in and day out, and we keep questioning the same questions with no answers and no solutions, and this has become normal. More often than not, we don’t even ask any questions anymore. We don’t even give a shit about any kind of critical thinking or whatever. All that music in the world, any fucking music one can imagine, is available to anyone’s taste at any point in time. I find it impossible to pick what I want to listen to most of the time. There are so many streaming channels on TV and apps and shit, and it takes forever to pick a show or a movie to watch. And then I do pick something; it is often some stupid shit that doesn’t make sense and is obviously a wrong choice and a waste of time. Halfway through, I don’t even pay any attention to it. Are we spoiled too much? Fuck yeh! The deficit and the scarcity or limitation of supplies create more demand for something. The law of economy. Works like a fucking charm all the time, every time. I wish we never run out of beer. Beer is important. Cigarettes are important. Music is important. Books are important. Lunch is way too fucking important. We cannot not have it. We can’t say no to these things. We live for them to have them, own them, and consume all of them. As Pink Floyd sings, “Welcome, my son, welcome to the machine.” Everything is being controlled by the system, everything is a machine of some sort or kind, and you and I and everyone else are part of it. We are the main ingredients for it. We make that shit work. We make that wheel spin and evolve and progress. We don’t even know why. Why is this the most annoying type of question? Nobody has any fucking clue or patience for it. It just hangs over us like a fucking brick occasionally hits us in the head when the time is right. Fucking time is always on the money. There is just, in general, so little time for anything. I have so many wishes, desires, needs, and hobbies I want to maintain, but I don’t have any time. We have the sun, but we don’t have the time, honey. Owning ten watches is not helping you to keep the fucking time still. It doesn’t help to keep the accurate time either. All these watches help us understand how fucking miserable and incompetent and powerless we are against it. Time will make us old and ugly and sick and eventually dead. Time is running fast as a motherfucker, with no mercy, no soul, and not even a thought about slowing down. You can throw away all your watches, but this fucker will never stop counting down. Then you will look into a mirror, and you will see another person there. That face looks familiar but is not what I feel like. It is not what I imagined I look like. It always looks much worst in the mirror than we think it is. Am I too optimistic about myself and how I look? Or maybe that fucking mirror has no soul and has no problem showing me the truth? I know I do a lot of stupid shit intentionally, not in my favor, but I always have an excuse. I always have something to defend myself with. I always have something to stand by. There is a reason why I drink something every day. There is a reason why I cannot ever quit smoking cigarettes. There is a reason I am a nervous fucking wrack many times. The reason is in that fucking mirror staring at me with a tired, confused, and disappointed face wondering. This is life, I’d say. Life has been getting to me. Life is happening. Life is what it is and time is what it is, and we are who we are. We can change, I’m sure. We should be changing and constantly evolving. I am more than convinced. But what is the point of it all? What is the reason we are all here alive and wondering, making mistakes, and trying to ruin every fucking thing we touch? Why the world is set to self-destruct? Can we all live in peace and harmony and mind our own fucking business without any major consequences and conflicts? Even beer makes more sense right now than the time or even the whole wide world. For fuck’s sakes! People don’t really need much of anything. We all just need to be more human. Even fucking Jimy Hendrix on my Spotify playlist makes more sense after some fucking sixty years later. I hate that these beautiful long Saturday nights with music, beer, and books and writing are never lasting long enough. They end. They end soon. Too soon. I can smell tomorrow in about a few hours when I wake up with a swollen face from cigarette smoking and beer drinking the night before. My whole experience of freedom and I do whatever fuck I want to do will be over. It all will become past. And tomorrow will be the future and the present and eventually the past. Even the small great experience in your life is worth more than having nothing. All these little moments are all worth it. They are worth living for, waiting for, creating even more of them in the future. I live my life for an experience. I spend my money, I don’t save as much as I probably should, but I know why I do all that. I am separating myself from the materialistic things to have more space for the spiritual experiences, to have a better life experience, to enjoy this short and dull fucking life as much as possible. I am not a baller. I am far from it. I am just a regular dude, trying to raise a family, become somebody, find myself, be a great father and a husband, trying to make all the right moves. I want to be a writer and write. I write as much as I can. I write as much as I have an opportunity to do so or as much as I make myself sit down and write. But I do. I try. I write. I want to make it happen for me, and I think that with time and perseverance, I will fucking make it one day, some fucking day, I surely will make it all happen for me just like I wanted, just like I planned. There will be a nice house in Florida near the beach, maybe with a pool, always nice weather, family near me, money in the bank, nothing to worry about, a few cars in the driveway for any occasion, and books all over the house. Why the fuck not?! For now, it is just a dream, just my imagination. Just a thought, food for thought, and fucking wish of mine, ok? Can a man have a dream? Can we all dream about something great for ourselves? I’d say, fuck yeh! Knock yourself up. Fuck yourself up. Whatever. Yet another bottle of beer is empty, and it is past midnight, and I know tomorrow I will be sad and tired and hungover, but I feel so alive tonight. I feel so inspired. I wrote all this shit in about half an hour. There is just so much of this shit in me tonight. I don’t want this moment to end. I don’t want this stream to end. I want to go on. I want this night to last forever, like a high school ball, a wedding night, a birthday night, or something else you don’t want ever to end. Fuck there is always so little time for everything. There is too much time for work, daily chores, misery, depression, problems, and payments, but so little time and opportunity to actually enjoy your fucking life. I want to live. I want to enjoy my life as I want it to, as I chose to enjoy it. Even if it means waking up with a hangover tomorrow. Even if it means fucking open another bottle of beer. I am going to, and I will stretch this night as long as I can. Fuck everything. How many times I will be free and thirty-three or four or five or fifty? We make our choices, and we should stand behind them. We should own our shit, good or bad. This is our life, and we should live it to our best potential. What is potential anyways? You figure it out. I am just writing. I think I have potential. We all do. Life will show how full of shit we are as time goes by. If six turns out to be nine, I don’t mind, nor does Jimy Hendrix. Jimi Hendrix is really fucking on fire this night in my earbuds. I realize how much I’ve missed some great classic, fucking blues, rock music. I can’t have enough of it. The fucker was twenty-seven when he died, and all that music he created, played, and recorded is purely amazing. It all still sounds too fucking great if you listen today. None of it got old. None of it got irrelevant. It only gets better with time. Something tells me people don’t get better with time. Something tells me otherwise. Before people had this freedom to express their opinions worldwide on social media and elsewhere, there was just so little bullshit in the world in general. Life was so much better. Now everyone is walking around with their fucking phones checking shit out, posting this up, commenting, hating, shitting, crying, fucking around on the web, polluting everything with garbage and nonsense. And that’s what we’ve become. Walking zombies, living in our own little virtual universe shitting on each other. Even the great benefits of social media are so much suppressed now that they are almost inexistent. Life was better when all that bullshit took place in a small circle of friends or family behind a kitchen table. But the Ginnie is out now, so go fucking wonder where we go from here. I guess I know why I love sitting here in my basement until the deep of the night, listening to my vinyl collection, reading books, and drinking beer. It feels so much more organic and natural and so much real and meaningful. This is what I love, the music, the books, the writing, the boose, and the smokes. Men don’t need much to be happy, honestly. You would not be happy if you got it all. You will not be happy if you have nothing to your name. But you still have some chance if you get at least part of it. I think I’ve figured it out. I think I’ve got it. Another beer, another hour into the night. Another night of complete indulgence and what I like to call have fucking fun and joy. Tomorrow is never guaranteed. This is the saddest fucking reality ever. I wish I knew the day, the last day, I’d prepare myself better. I’ll be or maybe not be anything I am not today. I think I like being myself, or I think it’s cool for the most part. I am feeling pretty cool right now. It could be the beer, but I am feeling pretty fucking great right now. I’m a voodoo child, according to Jimi Hendrix. Damn, I’ve missed this great fucking music for such a long time! There is a shit ton of great fucking music to listen to. I’ve lost my focus, but I am finding my way out of that hole. Life is not all that bad. All in all, at least I get my chance at it. At least I am doing something, something good, something bad, something too much, and something too little, but it is my life. This is my scenario, my play, my fucking game, and I own it. And the wind whispers, Mary and I wrapping this mother fucker up. See ya later fuckers. Cheers to the good times and good and meaningful life. Let’s make this world a better place, even if it means drinking more beer, listening to more great music, and reading more of the Hemingway books. Jimi Hendrix lives forever.
“Where is this fucking world going?” He sat by his kitchen nook with his coffee, thinking. “I can’t even remember when it all began to go South. For fuck’s sake, what kind of life this is anyway?” Jack’s face was looking tired. It was tired of too many things. His sleep was poor, drinking too much, too often, writing at weird times and hours or not writing for too long, abandoned by his family, having no or very minimal human interaction, all those things. He’s been getting older by the minute, and he felt like it. It was that face in the mirror every fucking morning that he had to cringe at every time. His soul might have felt younger, but the face showed it all. There were too many messages written on it, too many scars. He could read them all too well. He did it to himself in a way. It was too late to judge now, and who was there to judge him anyway? We all make mistakes in life. For many, life was a mistake. For many, there was no life, just a miserable existence. For some, it was a fucking paradise with the sun shining all the time. He’s had it all and then some.
What does money mean now? What does fame mean now? What do these books on the shelves and beer in the fridge mean now anyhow? He looked around with a depressed look on his aging face. The grey was now showing more in his hair and three-month beard. His eyes were sat deep and looked small and tired. It was impossible to go back in time and fix things. Fuck, if only he could do that! Everything felt great at the time, and nothing was to be changed. Years later, more and more of these revisioning thoughts were coming to him, stressing his hangover brains. Maybe, it was his drinking. There was plenty of that. There is always plenty of drinking and hanging out when things are swell. Things were going well for a long time. He was basking in his fame, and his books were topping all the charts back in the day. He still had his fans, but he didn’t have his passionate soul and youth anymore. That’s life, he thought. That is my motherfucking life.
Sipping his coffee, he stood up and walked up to the window. The picture outside the window was pretty much reflected what he felt like on the inside. It was late January, and it was freezing cold. There was so much snow, and he never bothered to shovel it. His backyard looked like the place where nature goes to die. All these naked, empty, dark trees were standing there motionless. Everything was stripped from its green wealth and beauty. That fucking snow covered everything, hiding the fucked up ugly surface underneath. This was a rough winter. This was a rough life.
He drifted in his memories back to when his family was living there with him. What a cheerful great old days they were! Where did they all go? He saw his wife planting flowers and decorating the backyard. He saw his young son running around, playing with their dog. There were smiles on their faces. There was laughter and joy, and there was his family. There was a feeling of being alive. He was busy working on his next novel all the time, but once he stopped writing, and just like right now, he looked through the window, and he couldn’t take his eyes away. These were his favorite people in the world. They were the people he was supposed to keep around, support, and love till the bitter end. That was the best part of his life passing by him while he took everything for granted and got busy with everything else. Somehow you feel like other responsibilities need more attention, and you keep distancing yourself from the ones who truly love you and need close to you. There are usually more and more responsibilities and other shit that pile up over time, and eventually, you end up old and broken and alone. Sadness took over his mind and soul. The tears rolled up in his old eyes. He felt the heart trembling and the pain inside. Fuck, he said, what a fucking asshole am I? How could I miss out on them so much? Where are they now? I guess you can’t go back in time to change anything. I think this suffering is permanent.
Jack’s wife divorced him some five years ago. There were a lot of problems between the two. Jack’s writing career picked up. He was always in the center of everyone’s attention, and it took the best of him. He was never around, and he was always busy with meetings, writings, appearances, new book projects, movie projects, all that kind of shit. On the one hand, it was great to see him succeed; on the other, he appeared to be more and more away from his wife and family, and eventually, when he was around, he wasn’t sober. The constant glorifying of his works and celebrating his successes led him to drink his ass blind. That was never a plan. That was never supposed to happen.
Jack remembered meeting his wife when he was a young and starving writer. They went to the same school, they had known each other for a long time. It has been one of those moments when you realize, damn, how come I never saw this in you? You are so beautiful and caring, and I cannot stop thinking about you. He offered to marry her right there in the dorm room, and she said yes. Jack smiled again, and his stone face moved awkwardly. These were the good days of his life. These were the best days of his life. He was young and ambitious. He wanted to become a writer, and school was just a distraction. It was just another social norm to follow while establishing his writing career. The college was supposed to cover up for his writing time while working on his debut masterpiece. He finally got it. He wrote that first best-selling novel. Everything started to change around him right the next day after. He barely graduated as he became famous. It felt great. It felt rewarding. They were both happy about his success then. They’ve shared their joy and excitement. Around the same time, his wife got pregnant with their son, and there was another great reason to be happy. Jack was writing on the next book.
If I only knew what that early success would cost me. Jack was desperate. Now, on the edge of his life, he was lonely. He was going to be a successful writer and provide for his family. He’s lived his dream life. But now his family is gone, his success in the past and his writing stalled for an undefined period. Life is a bitch. Life always keeps fucking you over. You have to pick your fucking battles more carefully, pal, he said to himself. Who gives a fuck about you, old man, anymore? His coffee was now cold, but he still felt like drinking it to the end.
It was sunny outside, and it seemed like it was warm. The snow was still on the ground, which would tell you otherwise. These short and cold days were flying away from one after another like the wild birds in the sky. There was no way of stopping the time. There was no way to get back in time and fix past problems. All you have to do is to suffer well, old man. He would call somebody, but he had nobody to talk to. Nobody called him either. It’s been a while since that phone was ringing. This is life. This is a revanche. I am losing this fight, Jack thought. It was not supposed to be this way.
He strolled to the bar and picked a bottle of whiskey. He went up to his writing room. His laptop was sitting on the table next to a pile of papers and glasses scattered all over. He poured himself a drink in one of the glasses and drank it all. It felt calming. He opened his laptop and started to type:
“There he was, on the edge of life, lonely and broken with all those books dusting on the library shelves around the world. Life gave him too many chances. Most of them he wasted. It’s not over until it is over, he thought and drank another one. Living his dream cost him a lot. He paid his price in full. There was nothing left for him in his City of Brotherly Love, not love nor any future promises. Everything came and went, and not all of the memories remained in his hangover mind. Fighting the good fight and drinking the good whiskey was everything left for him to do in his empty house of broken dreams with windows shut dark from the outside world. The writing was a lonely game. Life was a lonely game too. It wasn’t too bad as long as the words kept coming and the lines were written. Not at all.”
As another year comes to its natural conclusion, I sit and think about it for a while. Many things were going on this year that I wanted to analyze and reflect on. This year was not the best or most remarkable, even though many great things did happen, and overall it has been an improvement to the year prior. I think nothing will and could ever compare to 2020. That’s how fucked up that year has been for me and for all of us. 2021 has been a little bit better. In many ways, similar to 2020, not much improvement, although one could feel a bit of a relief. Something that was so mysteriously dangerous and everyone was holding on to just got out of the way. We all took a long deep breath and moved on in our lives. I think this is how 2021 will go down in history. It was time to move on. I am so fucking happy I moved on.
I am always fascinated by how fast a year flew by, and usually, that would make me a bit nostalgic and sad. This doesn’t happen anymore because these were some crazy two fucking years, and I cannot wish more to have them behind my back and fucking forgotten, thrown out of my life and mind. Fuck these crazy times. I am very hopeful for the future days to come. I do hope for a much better and prosperous future. I am the fucking future. I will make it all work starting right fucking now and onward. This is how it should be. Each of us has to own it, take our lives into our hands, and make shit happen. Nobody else would do that for you or me. It is all in our fucking hands.
I remember how desperately I’ve been waiting for the end of 2020. That one was a motherfucker of the year and such a turning point in, I believe, everyone’s lives. How many of us will never be the same after all that crazy shit? I think all of us have changed our life’s dimensions and priorities since 2020. I don’t know how much longer we all will be in this pandemic and how much longer we will be getting forced into vaccinations, masks, limited capacities, shortages, and all that other shit. One thing I know for sure, we all have to move the fuck on. We all have to own our lives. We all had to improve our lives, relationships with one another, and our health because otherwise, there is no movement forward. I made my choices, I made up my mind, I know what the fuck is what the fuck. I also see that many people are still living in this never-ending wait, for the directions, waiting to be told, waiting not to die from the virus, waiting for another fucking shot. The shot we all should be taking is our own shot at this life, not some fucking half-backed chemicals that might as well fuck up your health even more. And of course, even the fucking science doesn’t know the long-term effects and consequences or what else will the new variant bring on.
Reflecting on this year of God 2021, I think it’s been a rough one, but overall not too bad. I did spend too much time waiting on something to happen, and everything seemed to be a drag. I’ve been trying to take ownership and make things move around but with little success. Some fucking things just take their time. I have finally left the big Corporate America world, which was a very long-time coming and fucking finally came to fruition. Around February, I realized that I could not make things work and that there was no return from that fucking hellhole. The only option was to run as far away as I could. And I did. It took almost six months to run away and find a new job. There was so much fucking effort invested into this fucking job search that I almost gave up. I thought the month of searching would be enough at first. Then one month went by, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth. How wrong was I? And then, all of a sudden, somebody reached out to me from the deep past and offered me a job. I considered the opportunity, and I finally got the new gig. I got all that I’ve been ever asking for, and I finally was able to say good buy to all that corporate bullshit. Searching for the job took away all the time I wanted to spend on writing, fitness, family, sleep, and the rest of life-important things. It only made everything more complicated and more painful.
We wanted to move to Florida this passing year as well, unsuccessfully. We started house hunting early in the year, and we were very close at times of getting one. It didn’t happen until late September, and I think for all the right reasons. Fortunately, we’ve got our new place right here in the Philadelphia suburbs. We did spend an entire month of May in Florida renting, and it was the highlight of the year. That really felt very much like healing, very rewarding, relaxing, and just fucking awesome. I am considering going there next year as well. There are some things to consider prior but fuck the things. My life, my family’s life, and our well-being are top priorities against everything else. Everything else can go to fucking hell as far as I am concerned. There is always something in our way preventing us from going after our goals. Some fucking last-minute, out-of-the-blue fucking emergency that will fuck up the big plan. Here is where we need to be laser-focused and cut that bullshit right out. If you know what you want, go and get what you want. There is no need for waiting, crying, trying, or asking somebody for something. Just fucking do it, as Nike said.
This year I’ve lost my dear lifelong friend. It is hard to write about your best friend who is no longer here. There has been so much between us that we went through together that it will take a novel-sized book to capture everything. I don’t know if the words I am choosing are the right words, and indeed, they are not enough to capture the loss and the sadness. I have a ton of memories of him that I will always treasure, as well as all the things we did together. He’s been in poor health the last three years of his life since the diagnosis, and he’s been a true fucking fighter, fighting this thing to the end, until his last minute. Unfortunately, his illness was stronger than him. Unfortunately, all these other things got in a way, impacted him and his health one way or another, and in the end, he was gone. There was so much of him in my life, and now there is just emptiness. It is very unusual to realize that and confirm this new reality. How will this life go without a person who’s been so close to me all these years? We went through so much shit together. We have been together since the day we’ve met. Life did not prepare me for this, but this is something that, when it happens, leaves you with no choice. It leaves you broken up there, hanging confused and shocked, wondering what the fuck just happened. Rest in peace, my dear friend. I love you, I miss you, I will never forget you. As Warren Zevon sang, “I’ll keep you in my heart for a while,” and forever. Take care now. I hope you’ve found your peace up there in heaven. May your soul be comfortable for once and until we see each other again.
Job is something I seem to always struggle with. It is either the job search is challenging and complex, takes too much time, and there are no opportunities, or, when I finally lent a job, I feel like I am not in the right mindset to deal with it and I am thinking about the escape. And on the other hand, getting along with a bunch of strangers at work and pretending that you like them all and enjoy their company even if you don’t care, and even if they treat you like shit, is a full-time job on its own. Sometimes it feels like there are no great jobs for me or at all. It seems like everywhere I go, I own somebody something. That owning is what fucking drives me crazy. The minute I start feeling all those eyes on me watching, waiting, wanting me to jump out of my skin, wanting me to break, and all these fucking never-ending expectations and constant not enough’s are killers for anyone’s soul, not just mine. My soul is small and humble, and it doesn’t need much comfort or requires anything unusual. It is in a much better place when all the necessities are covered and paid for, but there the problems begin. I am a free spirit, and I like to think I am independent, and I like to think I have a don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, but that only goes for so long. At the end of the day, I love to have my bills paid on time and have certain comfort in my life, certain financial freedom, certain life qualities that I think a normal human being who works hard deserves to have and should be enjoyed effortlessly. I don’t like to count every single fucking penny. I don’t like to shop for savings and discounts, and I don’t give a fuck about savings and overthinking my retirement budget. I want what I want and when I do want that, and I am getting it right there and then. Not because I am a spoiled lunatic, but because this approach, in my opinion, takes away the pain of letting go of the hard-earned money and the stress that comes along with not having enough or spending your last dollar. I also don’t like to spend too much time worrying about stupid shit. I’d rather pay more and have nothing to worry about. Life is short. I wonder, when we die, what will be the biggest regret, our retirement budget, or all the missed opportunities in this life?
This year will mark the fifth year since I’ve seriously decided to write. Back in 2016, after reading Charles Bukowski’s poetry for the first time, I felt something that I had never felt before. There was this crazy urge to write, create, be a poet, and a writer. Everything I observed around me, every thought that entered my mind, I was trying to somehow put on the paper in the poem form. I remember that fire burning inside of me. I have never felt anything like that before or after. Bukowski’s poetry initially seemed too simple. I felt like even I could do that. I can write my thoughts as Bukowski did. This is why he was a genius. This is why he has inspired so many and keeps inspiring new writers today.
It wasn’t all that simple when I tried to write something myself, but at least I tried, and I’ve got something. It was the beginning of everything for me. My poetry wasn’t good, and there was no prose early on at all. Somehow, I wrote over two hundred poems in some three-plus years and self-publish that in 2020. Since that time, I haven’t published anything else. Last year, I finished writing a novel which I started writing back in 2018. This year I was planning to final edit it and start looking for representation as I was planning to have it all done professionally and officially.
The editing process stalled early in the first half of the year, and I could never finish it. There was always something in a way. Mostly my job or my new job search, which took away too much of my fucking time. I do feel like shit to yet again put my writing career on the back burner for the sake of comfortable and worry-less living. Looking back at it now, I don’t think it was all that comfortable and worry-less as I thought. Life is full of fucking surprises and challenges, and it keeps to fuck me up at every corner with every bit of opportunity it has to cut me off. I know this and expect this to happen, but this will take my focus away from my writing and my true passion. Am I disappointed? Yes, I am a little. I feel that this unfinished business is hanging over me. I feel like I didn’t hold the promise I’ve made to myself to finish that novel this year. But, with some challenges, I was able to make many improvements in my life and career, and hopefully, that will help me move forward and spend more time on my writing. I do hope to finish that fucking novel this upcoming new year and hopefully find somebody to push this to big guys in publishing to have a traditional publishing release. It would be great. At least it seems like it. There is a lot of shit I will have to go through as well, but I’ll deal with it when I get there. For now, I have a lot of work to do, and I need to have my priorities straight and set my mind on them.
It is not so cold and snowless on this Christmas Eve of 2021. It is dark and quiet outside, and nothing is happening in the suburbs besides Santa, who has a lot of work to do tonight. All kids are asleep, waiting for tomorrow’s morning to come faster so they can finally see their gifts. My wife and son are upstairs sleeping, and I am here downstairs, drinking great Irish whiskey, listening to a great Irish guitar player Rory Gallagher on vinyl, eating pistachios ice cream, and typing this final blog post for the year. Life is not all that bad. It can be bitchy at times, though. Everything that I have now, today, is not luck. I know that. I can recall too many sleepless nights and never-ending workdays and never-ending struggles and sufferings. I survived all that, and somehow I am still here. I am in a much better place and space and keep moving forward. Just like Rocky, I keep punching and moving forward. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow or after tomorrow or the next month, next year. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I have learned the hard way to survive, and I will survive no matter what happens. I will break the fuck free and breakthrough all that bullshit. I wish we all did just that in the new year. Let’s make this new year the best one yet for all of us. Life is too short to spend on stupid shit hopeless dreams. There is so much more to live for and to accomplish. I want to raise my glass tonight to all the new great beginnings and a better life for everyone. Cheers, y’all, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, whatever you celebrate, and a Happy New Year! We all fucking deserve it.
The sun will shine, and the wind will blow. And the trees will hum their tunes staying green as much as they want. Your next line is going to lay down or not, It doesn’t matter. We’ve all been through that. The coffee’s turning cold, and the cigarette’s Burning down, but it’s just one tiny moment. We are here today, writer or not And we live, We fight, We survive. We create.
With his fame, there also came the consequences. He was always busy with appearances and readings and presentations and speeches and meetings and phone calls. He never, since his last book, had much time for anything, not even writing. His family suffered because of it as well. They became the most celebrated and well-known families in Philadelphia, but his family took a big hit on the inside. He was never around the home too much or too often. He was always on the move and busy with something else. He had affairs that his wife was aware of, and this was the reason for their divorce. They divorced two years ago. Now each lived their own lives. The wife kept the place on the Rittenhouse square and the house in the suburbs, and Mark kept the Old City’s condo and the beach house. Their son was now in college and lived on campus by himself. He visited both mom and dad whenever he needed something, mostly when he needed the money. He was a celebrity on his campus and was busy managing the school, friends, and multiple girlfriends. Mark had numerous girlfriends himself. There was always a fan who would like to meet him and ask about the writing and a piece of advice and eventually have sex with a successful writer himself. The phone rang again.
“Hi, is this Mark McGuire?” the voice asked. “Speaking, how may I help you?” Said, Mark. “I would like to have you on our show in New York sometime next week. We are doing a round of interviews with successful people in today’s culture, and we would very much like to have you on.” “Ok, I think I could make it. When is that interview going to take place?” “Next Tuesday night, we will be live. “Ok, sounds good.” “Thank you, sir. Have a great day.” “Likewise. Good-bye.”
It has been just another afternoon, and Mark knew that the writing wasn’t happening for him today. He felt helpless and hungry. Mark needed some good food, steak, maybe? He called downtown Del Frisco for a reservation. They always had the best table for him. Every time he called or just showed up, a friendly waiter and valet parking person smiled and greeted him. Mark drove his Porsche up to the restaurant’s entrance, leaving the car with the valet before entering the building.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McGuire!” Said the waiter greeting Mark at the entrance, smiling like a hundred-dollar tip. “Good afternoon,” said Mark. “How are you today, sir?” “I am well, thank you. Just a little bit hungry.” Mark said, smiling back at the waiter. “We will take care of that for you, sir. Please, follow me,” said the waiter and guided Mark to his table. Today he was seated in the far-right corner. It felt more personal and private, just like he liked it. “May I have a double shot of Johnny Walker Blue label and Bone-in prime strip with brussels sprouts, please.” “How would you like your steak done?” “Medium well, please.” “Will do. Ok, thank you, sir. Your drink will be out in a minute, and you will have your steak ready for you as you like it.” Said the waiter leaving his table smiling.
There were not too many people at the restaurant at this time around. There were a few other visitors here and there, some business lunches, and few affluent locals who loved to eat a steak for the late lunch. Mark’s drink arrived, and he sipped on it. It felt great. The expensive whiskey always tasted like a victory, like success like the fresh air. Mark loved his whiskey. The steak arrived sometime later, and Mark ate it with passion. He ordered a couple more whiskeys, drained his glass, paid, and went outside. The valet brought his car. “Here you go sir, have a great day.” “Thank you, you as well.” Said Mark and rolled down the fifteenth street to Locust and the Philadelphia orchestra parking lot. They were performing Brahms at 3 pm. Mark loved Brahms. He parked and went to the hall.
After the performance ended, there were standing ovations, as usual. There was something about watching the symphony music played live. One could witness how these most fabulous sounds in the world were made right there in front of their eyes. All the musicians played their instruments perfectly, manufacturing their perfect sound with their gentle gestures against the instruments. Mark was fascinated. He was a regular visitor at the Philadelphia orchestra for quite some time. After the orchestra, he decided to drive around the City. He drove his car on Broad Street, the Avenue of Arts, the most luxurious and beautiful and artistic streets in Philadelphia. He watched people walking on the sidewalk; life moved around him.
Every person had their own story. Mark saw some homeless people sitting on the pavement begging for money; there were plenty of them in Philly all around. He drove down to JFK boulevard and Market street, observing everything. Driving around the City without any directions was like therapy for Mark. It was a great time to think about his life, city life, and others people’s lives. He played some classical music in his car, which always helped to clear his mind. Mark remembered how he was driving around the City in his old car when he was a young lad. After a stressful day at school, he would get in his car, get some coffee and cigarettes, drive around and just observe everything. Often, he would find himself going through the neighborhoods he has never been to before. The diversity of Philadelphia was fascinating. The neighborhoods built by the poor emigrants; everyone lived in their tiny communities, preserving the culture and the tradition of their homeland while trying to make it in America. This feeling was very familiar to Mark; his parents raised him like that.
His parents came here with nothing but a dream and high hopes for a better future for him. Even though they were not around anymore, Mark still remembered to visit them at the cemetery and leave some flowers for them. “You would be proud of me now, mother, dad. I did make it; I am a famous writer now. You said back in the day that I should better focus on the business career and try to find a job in my field of Economics, but I just loved writing so much more. Look at me now, and the writing made me a great man, the most celebrated writer in Philadelphia. I hope you are doing ok up there. Please pray for my family and me. Please ask God to help me write. I will be back to revisit you, I promise, I’ll visit soon. Take care of you both now.”
His first book, “Immigrant Song,” was about the life of an immigrant family in Philadelphia who struggled to live up to their American dream. This book was his first outbreak and his first success. The book was a story of underdogs, about endless struggle, misery, hope, and continuous perseverance. The first book was based on Mark’s personal experience. All these struggles shaped him to be the man and the writer he became. He forgot about it all a long time ago. The City was different back then. It wasn’t like it is now. Everything had a sad, depressing tone, and everything was colorless, gray, and muddy. The City seemed dangerous and nothing like it is now. There wasn’t much of “the brotherly love” left in this place back then, and even now, sometimes it seems to be the case. Everyone was fighting for their place under the sun, for their success, trying to survive. For Mark McGuire, love had a different meaning. Everyone loved him, even if he hasn’t written anything lately. It didn’t matter to the people. Once someone breaks through the regular bullshit and poverty into the world of recognition and fame and luxury, one becomes a different kind of human. You feel untouchable, indestructible, and you think above everybody and everything. Maybe that was the path of his self-destruction and creative misery?
On his way home, his son called. “Dad, I need a few hundred bucks. Can I stop by your place sometime today?” “Hey son, how’s life? Sure, stop by. I’ll be home in about 35 minutes.” Said, Mark. “Ok, thanks, dad. I am alright, taking this girl out tonight. I need some cash.” “I got you, son. Stop by later then. Ok?” “Ok. See you soon, dad. Thanks.”
Mark returned home, open the fridge, and got himself a bottle of beer. He sat on his couch watching through the window overlooking the City. He wanted to relax a bit and wait for his son to come over. His phone rang again. It wasn’t his son; it was his ex-wife.
“Hey Mark, my lawyer sent you some papers to sign. Did you get them?” “I’ve been doing great sweetheart, how about you?” “Mark, I’ve been same old great, thanks for asking. Can you please sign and return the documents?” “Maybe I can. Do I want to do that? Absolutely not. Why? Because I don’t care.” “Mark, can you stop it already, please? Just sign the damn papers, and let’s part ways once and for all. Shall we?” “Sure, we shall. I just cannot wait. How’s your new boyfriend doing? He still lives under my roof on Rittenhouse square?” “Mark, stop it! This is not your business. This is my life now, my private life, and I shall not respond to you and your stupid questions.” “Of course, You don’t owe me anything. Somehow it is me who is in debt with everyone else. Have a great day, babe, ok?” Mark said and dropped the phone. He loved to drive his ex-wife crazy, especially now during the final stages of their official split and going through this long and tedious separation process. “Asshole!” Said Jane angrily. “What an asshole!”
Mark chuckled, sitting on the couch thinking about this conversation. He thought about that folder which he received in the mail last week. Mark never bothered to open it after he saw the law office name and address on it. “Fuck, that, he thought, you, assholes can wait. And you too, honey.” An hour passed. Mark was still on the couch sucking on his beer listening to some good old rock-n-roll tunes. Then the doorbell rang.
“Yes?” “Dad, it’s me.” “Ok, coming,” said Mark opening the door and greeting his son. “What’s up, kid? I haven’t seen you in a while. How’s life?” “I’ve been busy with school, dad. You know, it takes a lot of time.” “Yeah, and chasing girls does as well, right?” Mark chuckled. “Yes, it does,” Jason responded with a shy smile on his face. “So, can you lend me some money? I am swamped and need to do a few things before tonight?” “What a rush son, are you hungry? Do you want to grab something?” “No, thanks, I’m good.” “Ok, here you go,” Mark reached for his home safe and pulled a six hundred dollars and gave it to his son. “Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it.” “No problem. Does your mother give you any money?” “Yes, she does. I’ve already asked her for some earlier this week.” “Oh, ok. Thanks for stopping by, son. I hope we can grab lunch or dinner sometime soon?” “Yes, that we should. I’ll let you know when I’ll sort the school stuff out.” “Sounds good. Take care, son, and it was good to see you as always.” “You too, Dad,” Jason said, hugging his father, the greatest writer in the world. He walked out of Mark’s place, closing the doors behind him.
“Kid, you grew up so fast,” said Mark to himself, wondering, locking the doors and returning to his beer bottle. “I remember when you were so young, and your mother and I changed your diapers and carried you around the house singing songs and playing stupid childing tunes and cartoons, anything to keep you entertained and happy. Especially tough was to keep you from crying. And you did cry a lot. I couldn’t write at home for some time because of it. I had to relocate to this place from our beautiful suburb’s house to write. Eventually, this place became my writing mecca. Every time I came down here, I was able to write. Every time I brought my ex-wife here, we had the best sex ever. Every time I brought any other girl after my Ex, I had a great time. This place is full of good memories for sure. Now that the writing is gone, not too many things could make me happy again. We all were happy back in the day. Now we all grew up, changed, and each is full of their own bullshit. How did we get here? Who knows?”
Nothing happened at the typewriter an hour later either. Mark stared at the blank page, sipped on his whiskey, and still, nothing came. His phone rang again. “Fuck! – thought Mark, the damned phone always rings at the wrong time all the time.”
“Mark’s here. Hello.” “Hi babe, are you lonely tonight?” It was one of his mistresses on the line who was indeed lonely that night. “Hi, Anna. I am lonely, but I am kind of busy tonight.” “Busy writing?” “Busy not writing. Just trying to get me there, you know. I think I’ve lost it. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with me lately anymore.” Mark sounded desperate yet very serious. Just enough to kill all the companionship requests without explaining too much. “I feel sorry for you, babe. I just wanted to be with you tonight. I thought maybe there is something I can help you with. You know, take the edge off, relax a little bit?” “Yeah, that’s what I need, except that I don’t even have the edge anymore. When I used to have it, I wrote days in and out. Shit. Never mind me. Sorry.” “No, it’s ok, no worries. If you want to be alone, it’s your wish. Call me later if you change your mind. I’m staying home tonight, alone and horny so that you know.” “Thanks for a boner, sweaty. I really appreciate it. I’ll be in touch. I just got to go back to work here. Have a good night, babe, alright?, Don’t get too bored out there.” “Good night, Mark McGuire, to you as well. I hope to see you soon. Love you.” “Ok, bye, Anna.” “Bye, Mark.”
The phone went dead, and Mark was alone again. It felt strange that this girl, Anna, his mistress, is the only one who truly wants his attention. Mark poured himself another drink, grabbed a cigar from his cigar case, chopped the end off, and went on the balcony. It was getting dark outside already, the air felt fresh, and the City was getting into the evening blues. He puffed on his cigar, looking at the view of the City, sipping on his whiskey, and thinking about her. “Anna is friendly to me all the time. Was there a single time that she was a bitch? No, I cannot remember. Even when I ignored her on multiple occasions, she still came back to me with love, passion, and affection. Oh, Mark McGuire, what are you doing to these women? Why everybody has to suffer around you? Am I this bad, or is it whiskey talking? There was no return to my wife, and I don’t even want to. It just feels like getting back home, back to my family. But what is my family anymore? My parents have died, they had a decent and challenging life, but they lived it proudly. My wife has a boyfriend and hates my guts. My son has his life to live and his priorities. And what about me? I am a middle-aged man, lonely as hell, trying to put my life in order. It is just a cigar and a glass of whiskey with me here. Why did I push Anna away yet another time? She is always so nice to me. She always has been. Maybe this is it? Perhaps I need to be less of a macho and more like a grown man? I guess I should. I think I do. I need to get my shit together quickly. I am Mark McGuire, the hottest writer in town and the country!
I wonder when I will start writing again? Maybe this cigar will help. He looked at his Rolex, and it was showing him 9:45 pm. The night was still young, and there is a possibility that the writing will come. Looking at the City at night was a fantastic view. It has always inspired Mark. And he just loved it. That’s why he spent most of his time in this place. He remembered the days when he arrived in Philadelphia for the first time. It was a magnificent experience. This place was so much different and more prominent, and brighter and broader when his tiny hometown in the middle of nowhere. He remembered his struggles and how his parents worked hard to make things work, pay the bills, and put the food on the table. He remembered when his mother told him, “One day you’ll get your education and will help your old parents. You are a smart kid, Mark. I have faith in you.” These words felt like a hot coffee with whiskey down his through warming down his chest and burning him on the inside. Something clicked. The cigar went into the ashtray. He put the coffee on brewing, poured himself some in the cup, and went back to the typewriter. He sipped his coffee, looking straight at the page, his eyes red and tired but focused. He put his hands up and started to type. One word followed another, one line followed another, and so on. He wrote through the night without even thinking of stopping or taking a break. Mark was alive again. He felt it in the air. Mark felt it in his soul. He was indeed the greatest writer in the world, Mark McGuire.
Mark McGuire – the greatest living writer of the present day. What a talent, what a man, what a writer! The man who wrote so good that he humbled the entire literature world, and all the Philadelphia residents cherished him more than anything else. Some would say he was more popular around here than Rocky. That’s how vital Mark McGuire has been to his native Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, the City that gave birth to this great man, this great writer, the genius of the written word, the writer with a capital “W.” This writer wrote better than anybody else in the entire world. Hundreds and thousands of tourists were coming to Philadelphia, first and foremost, to see the City where the great writer lives, to walk the streets where the great writer walks, to get a drink in the bars where the great writer drinks occasionally, and just breathe the air of the City infused with such a quality talent. A ton of inspiring writers would get inspired coming to Philly. Here it is, this is the place, the City that can encourage anybody. Philadelphia, the City that can make you a great somebody. Mark’s name has been part of the local news almost every day. There were reports on the late night’s news coverage covering the day in the life of the most famous writer in the United States of America and the most known and recognized writers and residents of Philadelphia, Mark McGuire. Even though it was hard to spot him wondering the City during the daylight, he was still here; he was around, he was home.
Mark was born in late August of 1973 to his emigrant parents, who came here from Eastern Europe in search of a better life. Mark grew up like a regular American kid in an immigrant family. He was a bright child growing up, a good-looking young man, and everything was alright with him. There was something about him that would make one stop and take a closer look and listen to what he has to say, or just to be around this great man. Mark graduated from a public high school and enrolled in one of the best business schools in Philadelphia City to pursue a degree in Economics. His parents were broke, and he didn’t have enough money to get himself better clothes, a better car, or a better anything. With his outstanding grades and some government help, he enrolled into Drexel, one of the top business schools in Philadelphia. He needed a great school and a great work experience to make sure he’ll get a good-paying job in the future and can help his parents to get old and retire in comfort. His study was tough on him in the beginning. The wealth of knowledge was overwhelming, the pace was too fast, and he often thought that getting into this school was a big mistake. He still had to make his parents proud and pushed himself harder. Eventually, he graduated after four years of torture and was happy to graduate finally.
He has learned some Economics and general business studies, but the most crucial class was English. He took the English class dedicated to the work and life of John Steinbeck. Mark was fascinated with John Steinbeck. While learning about Steinbeck’s life, it seemed to him that a writer’s life was always full of unpredictable, exciting, and exotic events and unusual people who eventually will help shape you as a writer and inspire you to write. Ultimately, life will inspire one to write. In his English class, Mark’s assigned reading was “The Log from the Sea of Cortez,” the novel about Steinbeck’s expedition to the Gulf of California in 1940 to collect and learn about various marine species while writing about his observations and experiences. Mark felt that this is something that he would like to do as well. The life of a writer, Steinbeck’s indeed, must’ve always involved some drama in personal life, drinking, smoking, travels, discoveries, struggles, misery, and desperate writing itself. All these things he will live through eventually. All these things will ultimately influence his writing and will make him as great as Steinbeck has been.
Mark read this book with excitement regardless of plenty of biological terminologies. Mark loved this expedition’s whole idea and thrill, especially Steinbeck’s remarks and thoughts he wrote about in that book. Mark reading “The log from the sea of Cortez,” thought about how fascinating it must’ve been to be John Steinbeck, the most significant American author of his time, living his life full of adventures and excitement while being almost broke financially and while his personal life was falling apart. Nonetheless, he was writing, and he was doing what he wanted to do, creating his art of a written word. He was John Steinbeck. Mark wanted to be like him. For the first time, the idea came to him to become a writer, and it was larger than life.
Mark McGuire has published three successful books and multiple short stories across various publications and journals. His first book, “Immigrant Song,” has put him right up there with all the promising writers. He met his agent around the same time and got a deal for his second book. The second book, “The Houses of the Holy,” has won the Pulitzer prize and put Mark McGuire on the national level. As the sales in the United States went through the roof, the book received international printing and has been translated into more than thirty languages earning him international success as well. “Gods and Monsters,” the third book by mister Mark McGuire received a Nobel prize in literature in 2014. Mark was a proud son of his parents, a happy family man, at that point, and the most respected resident of Philadelphia and the State of Pennsylvania, and the entire country and the entire world. Hollywood bought the rights to all of his books and produced three top-grossing movies. The White House at one time invited Mark to have dinner with a President and his family. Mark has befriended multiple celebrities around the globe who wanted to meet the most incredible author of the present day. His life couldn’t be more exciting and successful. He was the greatest living writer in the world!
Mark owned multiple properties in Pennsylvania, New York, Los Angeles, and the beach house in Jersey but spent most of his time in Philly. Philadelphia, his hometown, had everything his little heart desired. Mark loved the architecture of Philadelphia, the parks, busy during the day streets, and peaceful calming nights of the City of Brotherly Love. The City inspired him and made him want to be an artist and to create his craft. He loved to walk around the City a lot before he became famous, and it was still possible to walk outside and not be bothered by the people. He loved to take long walks down Broad street and onto the Spruce and down to Columbus Boulevard, then take Walnut back to the Market and his bellowed Old City. Mark’s favorite residence was right there in the heart of the Old City, 3rd and Market. He owned the top floor with a nice view of the City, which always inspired him and made him feel at home. This residence was his creative shelter. This place gave birth to his latest third book, five years ago, and since he hasn’t published or wrote anything new.
He was a writer that didn’t write. He had it all and at some point, but everything has left him alone, high and dry. His situation was dire. He thought a lot about his life and death and all the reasons and meaning of everything, but nothing helped. He still wasn’t writing anything new. He drank more too. Mark would wake up early in the morning and look through the window over the dark and still sleepy City. He found this view very comforting and inspiring in the way. Mark loved to get up early in the morning and watch the sun rising and observe how the color of the sky changed, often with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had his typewriter ready to go, but still, nothing came to him. Mark would stare at the blank sheet of paper for a long time. His face would freeze in the sad and thoughtful grimace, thinking about what he should be writing next.
“I am Mark McGuire, the greatest writer in the world! Isn’t it? I used to write well. I used to write days and nights, tired and starved, with a shitty laptop and a word processor, and there were so many great stories and ideas to write about! Where are they now? Why did they all leave me here all alone and desperate? I need to get back to business; I need to write something. It’s been five damned years since my last book. I need to show people some new work, and it got to be good. It better be good! Not good, but great! Yes, it better be great, another great book by Philly’s famous one and only, Mark McGuire! And I feel like I also need some coffee.” He went to the kitchen to brew some fresh, strong black coffee. Pure black was his favorite. Sipping at his coffee from the large white ceramic mug, Mark was staring at another sunrise, looking into the infinite skies thinking. “Maybe I should go for a run while the City is waking up and there aren’t too many people outside? I think I need to get back in shape, both physically and in writing. I need to be strong and active.”
He dressed in his running clothes and running Nike sneakers and went outside. It was September out, and the air was still warm but somehow very clean and fresh this early morning. Mark stretched his legs and started jogging down the street. He ran for about 40 minutes one way and then returned home. Running in the morning in the City was great. As he ran, he listened to a classical station on his phone. The classical music in the morning did the trick. He felt so elevated and fulfilled while listening to it. The running seemed to come easy, and he felt like he could run even more than his usual distance. There were not too many people and cars out yet, and he found a bit of personal comfort and privacy in that. Mark loved his fame and his fans, but more than anything else, he loved his privacy. He could be the nicest guy out there socializing with other people; however, people tired him fast. He felt exhausted and frustrated and had to meditate to find his peace of mind and get back into a stable mental condition. After about an hour and a half of his morning jogging, Mark returned home. He returned yet again to an empty page.
“I need some breakfast,” he thought and went to the fridge for some eggs and veggies. That was his “breakfast of the champion” – two fried eggs and fresh vegetables with a cup of coffee. He ate and drank his coffee. He felt a little better. After Mark finished his breakfast, he looked at an abandoned typewriter and still felt nothing but sadness. It was time for his morning meditation. Mark loved to sit in his favorite rocking chair and drink or listen to music or meditate. Mark meditated for at least thirty minutes every day. Meditation was his remedy for going insane. Writing could’ve been the most liberating and fulfilling thing, or it could turn out to be the most depressing, uneventful, and devastating experience for a writer. Mark has had it all. He’s been around for long enough; he knew things, he knew what it meant to be a writer, especially a good writer.
“I need to write something now. I know I can. Maybe not today, maybe tomorrow? Who knows, I just hope it will come back to me. I wish this meditation helped more, or whiskey, or even running. Fuck, anything would be helpful to get me started at the typer. Once I am there, I am truly there. I can kill, I can destroy, I can write like no one around! Maybe, I just need to relax a little bit more and watch some TV or something?”
TV bored him fast; there was nothing on it that would fascinate him. “I’d rather read a book.” Mark grabbed “Ask the Dust” by John Fante and started reading. Oh, John Fante! The lost and long-forgotten one of the Great American writers! What a man! What a writer! Reading Fante was like breathing the fresh air. His writing always seemed so easy and smooth and funny and nicely composed. Mark admired John Fante a lot. He was another significant influence on Mark’s writing. Reading anything Fante did would make any idiot start writing himself. He read for about two hours and stopped, then went to his home bar and grabbed himself a glass of whiskey. Whiskey felt good. He sat back in his chair and read some more. After a while, he thought he could go back to his writing again. He was standing before his typewriter, looking at this machine with slight curiosity. “Ok, my dear friend. I want you back. I want to be friends with you again. Help me put a few pages, and I will never forget your generosity, and I shall always cherish our friendship.” He came closer and started to type:
“It has been a cold and dark morning, and the City was still asleep. John woke up after he heard the harsh noise which came from the street. He wondered what the hell that was. He woke up and took a shower. The shower felt sobering and refreshing, and John felt better and calm. Even yesterday’s hangover was gone within minutes. His wife called him a day before, and he refused to talk to her. They were divorced for the last two years but still had to talk to each other from time to time, especially to discuss the alimony payments and when the child can stay over. John had enough of that. He wanted to move on. He wanted to leave town, but he couldn’t. He missed his son and loved him dearly. Why was he ever involved with this woman in the first place? Why was he so stupid?”
Mark stopped for a moment, re-filled his whiskey, and tried to continue but didn’t know how to. He stared some more at the half-full page. He needed some more time to focus. He stepped back, turned to the window with the city view, and watched people move on the streets and cars drive back and forth. The City was alive and busy again. There is so much life in there. Mark felt nostalgic for a moment. He reminisced about the days when he was a poor student, with no car, no money, no books published. How simple was life back then? How great and terrifying it felt not to know what the next day will bring and not to be sure if the very few dollars in your pocket will last long enough. He was young and starved, and there was something about that state of mind. When your back is against the wall, and you have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, you act fast, you think quickly, have no time to discuss anything, no time for bullshit, only actions, clear, precise, concrete steps. Those actions made him write in the first place. He wrote his first book in about three months. He remembered the feeling of finishing his last page and then just stare at the pile of paper. “This is my book! My very first book!” He said, smiling proudly. That moment was worth reliving a hundred times.
Moments like that usually don’t happen too often. Unfortunately, things were not so easy as they seemed. He was not starving; he wasn’t hungry; he wasn’t in the state of his back-against-the-wall. Once the most celebrated people in Philadelphia, he was wealthy, well-respected, and an established writer. He did not wish for anything anymore and for many-many more years to come. His wife divorced him two years ago, and now he had a lot more time to spend on his writing. And he did, but he didn’t write. It just didn’t come to him. Whatever came out of him went straight into a trash bin. The writing was never easy. The writing was never easy for anybody, not even for Fante. The phone rang.
“Hello, this is David Fitzwater, from The Philadelphia Inquirer. I would like to speak to Mark McGuire if possible?” “Mark McGuire’s listening.” “Hello, Mr. McGuire, I am the main editor of Philadelphia Inquirer, and we would like to do an interview with you and let our people, Philadelphia residents to know what you have been working on and how your life is going these days. Would you be willing to sit down with me for an interview?” “Um, sure, let’s do this.” “How about tomorrow, if possible? Afternoon works?” “Yeh, tomorrow afternoon works; around 1 pm is good for me.” “Sounds good, Mark. Thank you very much. I am looking forward to talking to you tomorrow. You have a great day yourself.” “Thank you, David, you as well. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He hung up. One more interview to talk about nothing. Because nothing mostly was happening in his life. People asked him to do an interview almost every day, either for journals, newspapers or TV shows. He had his “great life story” ready to go. However, not everything was so great and smooth in his life anymore. After the third book, when the big success hit him, everything changed. One might think that he had finally achieved what all writers in the world would like to achieve, the Nobel prize in literature, worldwide success, and endless fame, limitless possibilities, and opportunities in movies, books, and TV. Everything changed entirely for Mark to the worst.
I arrived in New York City on early Monday morning. I’ve recently got a new job. It was the best thing that happened to me in a long time, getting a new job. After eight months of nothingness, misery, and unemployment, I was a decent human being again. I was back to normal. I could even write again. There was no need to hustle and no need to live on my last dollar anymore. I began to work for a major and well-known financial institution. I was a contract employee, and even though contractors are never even remotely close to employees in terms of general compensation and benefits and all that good shit that we all are thriving for, I was happy at last. I felt like I’ve made it. I, who came from nothing, who came to this country with nothing more than two bags of bullshit and high hopes for a brighter future, have finally made it. I was able to graduate from one of the top business schools in Philly. I worked for various companies, from real estate to medical devices to fucking financing. And here I was, the major player has offered me a new gig. This Company’s name I could proudly put on my resume as one that will open so many opportunities and doors for me in this country where both idiots and dreamers have an equal chance.
I have booked a hotel right by Times Square, on 47th Avenue, in the “tourist’s heart” of New York, the Big Apple, the City of all the Cities, the power, the money, the big shot, the big shit. I never knew before that my Company had three different buildings in the Manhattan area. Two were across the street from each other in midtown, which reminded me of the Twin Towers. The third one was 15 miles away, downtown. Of course, I booked my hotel closer to the two across the street from one another since I thought that was where I was going to. I was wrong. The lady at the front desk has told me that the building I was looking for is on the other side of Manhattan, downtown. Fuck. I took another cap for another $20 to go to the other side of Town. I paid and walked out with my laptop bag and the mid-size travel luggage bag, and the fucking umbrella which I had to purchase first coming out of the train station. It has been raining in New York since the early morning, and the forecast wasn’t any better for the next few days.
I met my neighbor Gene when my family moved to our new house in North East Philadelphia. Gene was in his mid-eighties then, a short, older guy wearing his old-school clothes and eyeglasses. He loved to play chess, and he would always ask me to play with him every time he saw me around.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gene. I am just a little busy today, maybe we’ll play next time?”
“Ok, sounds good. We’ll play next time.” Gene would say with his signature older men’s smile on his face. He was already excited to play a game whenever that would be. He was old and lonely, even back when his wife was still around. I never told him I have no clue how to play chess, but I always thought, what the hell, eventually, I will play with him. The old man might teach me a thing or two. He had 80 plus years of experience after all, and I was just an asshole, his next-door neighbor, who was trying to figure out what to do with my own life.
I worked full-time then for the finance company in Southern Jersey at the time. I hated fucking it. I hated that company, financing, leasing, bullshitting, people who worked there and bullshitted their customers and bullshitted each other. I hated all people who stuck in the daily morning traffic over the Palmyra bridge driving to Jersey; I hated my colleagues, my asshole boss, and myself for working there and contributing to the great evil. It was around that time, back in 2016, when I discovered and was reading a lot of Charles Bukowski, and my world has changed along with me and everything I was about in this life. I loved his honesty, sense of humor, the ugly truth of the brutal reality, and the never-ending drunken shenanigans he lived through, and wrote about in his poetry and fiction works. But there was something else to it. There was the real-life feeling of hardship and misery, an enormous passion for writing, the close feeling of life and death with all this living on the edge full of despair and failure. Bukowski’s work inspired me to become a writer, and I remember that powerful feeling from the deep-down: “Fuck that finance company, I want to be a writer!”
We finally arrived in Key West Florida around eight o’clock on a hot Tuesday evening in mid-June. The trip from Philadelphia was annoying and too damn long, but sure worth it. It took us a car ride, two shuttles, two airplanes, a rental, and a total of eighteen hours to get there. I am an inspired young writer trying to make it in a corporate world and my six-month happily pregnant wife, we’ve left for a little get-away right before the pregnancy, and traveling becomes too much of a burden for both of us.
We’ve decided on Florida because it was a relatively affordable trip with an excellent travel package for a week and, of course, because of Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway resided in Key West from 1931 to 1939. His house is a historic landmark and a museum, and it’s the primary destination for so many people coming down here, to the edge of the world, the far end of the Florida Keys. We stayed at Havana Cabana, a cool Cuban style hotel-resort located just about ten miles away from Hemingway’s house. We stayed there for the next five days, and this would be our last trip with only two of us before the baby arrives.
This has been the first, and the last time I saw Anthony Bourdain alive…
JFK airport in New York was as busy as usual, even at 10 pm on Thursday night. This night on May 17th of 2018, we were going home. I got married two years ago, and my wife and I decided to go back home to Ukraine to visit the family and old friends as well as have some fun out there and travel around Europe. I hadn’t been home for ten years at that time, so I was super excited and, at the same time, a bit nervous about going back. A lot has changed since I was gone. Two nationwide revolutions happened in the country, three presidents changed seats, the annexation of Crimea, and the war in the East of Ukraine, just to mention a few. I was planning this trip for a while but never had a chance to do it. Finally, we were on our way.
We’ve turned in our luggage and, with two small carry-on bags, were roaming the airport searching for a place to kill the next three hours before our flight and, of course, the place where we could get a drink. We passed a few different cafes, which either didn’t look attractive enough or served something we wanted to eat.
“This one looks good and has a bar too.” Said I to my wife as we were walking by another café.
“Yeah, do you want to go there?”
“Sure, let’s see what they have on the menu.”
The place was crowded as most of the places in New York. This one was packed, and there was a short line of people waiting to get in. The waiters were running around serving food and drinks, wiping down the tables after people who left and setting them up for new customers. We grabbed menus at the front desk and looked inside. There were some soups and salads, and burgers with fries and sandwiches, and various drinks available.
“I’ll have a burger and a beer for myself. What would you like, honey?” I asked my wife.
“I’ll have a salad and a mojito,” said my wife.
“Sounds good. Let’s get in line. It seems to be moving fast.”
“Ok.” Said my wife, as we left menus at the front desk and got in the line. We had a little less than three hours before our flight home. We were hungry and happy.
…2018 was a bad year. This trip out to Ukraine was really the only highlight and the most exciting moment, the rest of 2018 was just struggling and trying to make ends meet. I have lost two full-time jobs back in 2017, which lead me to 2018 fully unemployed and emotionally broken and financially desperate. That was a moment of truth in my life. I was young and angry at the world and social establishments, and all that horseshit that dominated my life and made me a slave to the system. I thought that corporate life was not for me anymore. I was an outcast. I couldn’t get myself together and focus and work well with other people. Fuck people. Why did everybody annoy me so much? Why did I always feel like I had to adjust to meet some criteria or someone else’s expectations? Why I never had an opportunity to focus on things that mattered to me the most? I needed to make up my mind and try to do something that would bring me joy and help me become happy and fulfilled instead of miserable, frustrated, and always stressed the fuck out of my mind. So, that was it for me, and my relationship with a corporate world ‘slash’ career-building pursuit.
The dark countryside road went up and down and into the nowhere and into the unknown darkness of the Pocono’s mountains. Google Maps was taking us somewhere we’ve never been before. Driving was getting exhausting as it was getting late into the evening and pitch dark all around us.
“Honey, why don’t we pull out at the nearest hotel and spend the night there? We’ll hit the road tomorrow morning again. I am so tired of driving in this darkness. I can barely see where I am going.”
“Ok, sounds good, babe. I am exhausted too and I need a hot shower” my wife said. I flicked a left turn signal shifted to the far-right lane and took the exit out of the highway.
The curvy exit road took us through the toll booth and out into the town’s street with a gas station right there on the right. There were a few chain fast-food and pizza places down the street meant to be for the tourists, of course, to stop by for a quick bite of something painfully familiar while being away from the city. A few minutes driving down on that street we saw this classy, red-brick, four-story hotel with some lights on the outside of the building and a dead empty and quiet Broadway street.
I and my wife love to go out into the countryside over a holiday break or just because we feel like going somewhere away from the city and just explore new places, enjoy the view and enjoy getting lost in some weird unknown mountainside traps. We were married for about just three years back then and life was just much simpler and free.
This is kind of ironic to write this follow up exactly two years after my shit went South. Yeh, it’s been two years already since I was fucked really good by the system. It’s been two years since life had really tried my patience; since gods tested my nerves and everything precious for me at the time was just gone. I do still feel the pain, but it is not what it used to be back then. I am a stronger man now. I don’t give a fuck any longer.
I do like to reflect on my life looking back and analyzing what I have done, what I’ve learned, or what am I supposed to be? Just two years ago I felt like the Earth has moved under my feet; like everything I have been living and striving for all of my life just fucking collapsed. Looking back at those times today it certainly feels different. I have outgrown that. As they like to say “Whatever doesn’t’ kill you will make you stronger.” It did make me a stronger person indeed. I do think though that it is always a good practice to reflect back on the “good old days” and see how can I learn from that. I wouldn’t be a man who I am today if not for all that crap that happened to me in the past.
My shit did have some luck eventually, but it took me a while to get there. I think about life as the picks and valleys. Back then in late 2017 and 2018, there were plenty of fucking valleys in my life. Losing two corporate jobs in one year or to be more precise in just under 5 months. It has been quite a fuck-up on my end. Not everything ever depended on me necessarily. There were other things in the background. There are always other things in the way. I did sign up to be a “normal” part of society and have a real nine-to-five-job and a stable pay and the benefits. I’ve sold my soul, kind of. But, why the fuck not? After all, I have graduated from one of the top Philadelphia’s business schools to get here. I still owe a good chunk of my student loans. Somebody has to pay them off. Somebody has to feed my family, my child, and finance my unknown future.
Back in the day, I thought, I have to get a good education, I have to stay career-inspired, I have to do everything well, I have to do a good job and get recognized. I have to build my fucking career, in order to make a good living for myself and my family. These were the days when carrying a laptop around with you to classes or coffee shops was a strange new thing. These were the days with no smartphones, no apps, no SEO, no bullshit. Kids actually had to study and read the real books and write original essays and all that jazz. Having a good job after graduating from a good school was a sure thing. I could never imagine that with all that technological advancement everything will be shifting and changing so fast, that every day at your own fucking job can be the last one. As soon as all that shit gets automated and optimized for efficiency and cost savings to improve the “bottom line” there will be no need of you, regular working pal, you’re out. Nobody cares about the average man.
So here I was, thirty years old, unemployed, broke but happy. It all happened two years ago as I am typing this. November 2017 was a motherfucker of a month for me. I remember waking up the next day and having no early morning alarms set up, not rushing to get anywhere, no turnpikes, no traffics, no more frustrations, no more anxiety, no more work. I was jobless and free. I woke up, got my shower, got my breakfast, and thought about what should I be doing now since I have all the time in the world to myself.
I’ve decided to wash my laundry. I was so excited that I forgot to check my pockets, and washed my “ChapStick” along with my jeans and dress shirts, fucking them all up with greasy stains. Next, I’ve decided to clean my house. I’ve got plenty of time so I’ve decided to go deep and wash everything well, reach all the hard-to-reach places and make my house shine. Everything took me about half of the day. When the afternoon came around, I’ve decided that I need to get some air. I got into my car and drove to Wawa to get some coffee and smoked a cigarette. While smoking outside I was thinking about it all. What’s next for me? The house is clean and the laundry is done. What should I be doing? When should I start looking for new jobs? Not now, for sure. Fuck that. I’ve had enough. I needed some time to clear my head. I needed some time to recover. I’ll go home and write something, I thought. Plenty of time for writing now. I should put it all in on writing. Why not? This is a great opportunity now since I have no agenda anymore.
