How is your writing going?
Not an easy question nor answer, I say, habitually by now.
And it’s not that I don’t appreciate the question, because I do. I truly do. It’s gratifying to know people are interested in what I’m doing, and that they might care about it like I do.
But in truth, I have no idea how to answer.
I’ve never tackled a writing project of this scale, and I’m struggling to see an aerial view of it. And it strikes me now as I write that image, that it’s not that I’m looking for perspective, but more perhaps I want to fly away.
Do you mean have I written any words that will eventually be printed in a book? Maybe. But not many. And they are scattered in various docs and apps and yellow postits that litter my desk like autumn leaves, slowly curling at the corners, becoming something forgotten, losing the sheen of life that led to me rushing from shower to bedroom dripping onto the floor and frantically scribbling some pithy idea that seemed so vital in that moment.
Do you mean do I get up each day and diligently sit down at my desk to chip away at this unwieldy thing that I hope one day will be a compelling story? Sort of. But mostly I shuttle between rooms, picking up kid’s toys and depositing them somewhere else they probably don’t go. Or making unnecessary cups of coffee. Or eating standing up at the sink, looking out at the fence I never got round to painting in the summer, and the vans, slowly decaying in the car park like rusting monuments to my failure to do basic things like give them a wash.
Do you mean am I happy with how things are going? Mostly. But more often I feel a sense of welling anxiety, like blood from a knife cut. Worry that I’m not doing enough, worry that I’m not doing the right things. And then worry that I’m being far too casual about it all, like I’ll just straighten my back and hammer out some words when I feel ready, as easy as taking out the recycling. Even though I can barely manage to do that with regularity.
And yet.
And yet.
More or less every moment of every waking day I am thinking of this story. I am kneading ideas, in the hope that they will become supple and rise into something glorious and desirable.
This is sometimes how writing works for me. There are long stretches of destitution, where I wander through a half-world, looking for answers. Looking for a place to begin. Looking for somewhere to fall. And when I find it, I will fall, and keep falling, and all else will melt away and I will know that I am on the way.
I feel myself tilting on the edge of this precipice where the fall does not mean the end, but the beginning. It’s coming. I feel it coming. I know that my apparent procrastination is not wasted. It is simply the space for ideas to breathe. And I know that right now I need to enjoy the feeling of being in this world, at this moment, because when I fall into the other, I may not come back for some time.
So in answer to your question.
Really, what I want to say is this:
I am the dawn treader, wheeler of light and air.
I am the feeder of a rat.
I am cigarette smoke in the cold, blue dark.
I am the rush of the burn in the gathering blackness.
I am the swirled history of a whisky glass.
I am the panicked croak of pheasant as dusk spills round the roots of trees.
I am ignored lists of things I need and things I’ll never do.
I am the salmon spawning in the pools, wrestling with instinct, writhing with fatalistic purpose.
I am jilted piles of books, aching to be noticed.
I am the soft curves of questions that rise from tilted eyes.
I am all of these things and none at all.
That’s what I want to say.
And yet I can’t.
Because people would think I had lost my mind.
And maybe they’d be right.
JP: don't remember asking you a question but will respond in kind. just read ur joint on running drunk! excellent vision. I can't run much less walk when drinking, but drink and smoke cause me to explode on the keyboard. (And as a fellow BGer you know i Have been docked at least twice more than Bexy.) Mostly 'cause my highness doesn't translate well with Negs and some of the crew. I can't blame them either. It's hard to stay on blog topics that are so cynical& sarcastic that I can't help but go surf-adjacent.
That said, I've written four manuscripts with a stream-of-consciousness (always high) and would like to share. I recall an earlier response to my posts simply don't form enough of a thread. Here's an elongated cyclical version of my response that alcoholics are really pretty cool peeps.
Respectfully, Tim (aka Dane's sushi, salsa & sauza)
_”Wino" A MANUSCRIPT BY TIM NELSEN Began May 9, 2004…and never ended…
Until February 3, 2005…Let’s open our books, students…The Super Bowl was in New England 24-21…Sir Paul McCartney at half time…and we’re Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds…coming along…
1.0 Introduction
aND i SAW ON MOTHER'S DAY THE SCENE TO END ALL SCENeS...for my MOM and my "x" and that's a separate story...
Leaving tomorrow for Paso Robles...to kick off the Central Coast Wine tasting festival and to meet the vintner's daughters...
C-Span has been busy today...G-8 conference on Iraq, and we still don't have a plan...
Until June 30, 2004 when we turn their country back to themselves and that's the scary story...July 1? Instead of July 4th...
"Saving Our Troops" has been handed off and eventually may make it's way to Iraq...and Cambria, to investigate where the "Environment Over Easy" consignment deal fell through...or did it?
Waiting on 16 field level Dodger tickets that I ordered through the US mail....and 1-800-Hit-Dodgers for a potentially angry group which may explode...my future in-laws...
They are coming from all over California...which has a new workman's compensation plan delivered through the usual suspects...
excepting Arnold, who is brokering the deal...
Merlot for the beurocratics and beer for the troops...
And John Kerry for governor to keep him busy again...
Rumsfield is in Abu Agraid...Senator Kyl is in Arizona a statesmen cursing the juvenile ignorance, the democrats "misbehaving," and George W. is seeking re-election again...with no military record...that approaches Edward Kennedy...both were (ARE) drinkers...
"Cept his money wasn't bootlegged...it was oil and business, as usual...
I have a wet dream...but it's with a meaningful purpose...to go out and have sushi again...
Chapaqutec...is not an Indian name...it's a bridge Ed...I served time and you didn't...bastard...and I was in control...you weren't...
I was alone and not cheatin'...bastard..."And that was the straw that broke the camel's back"...said her...
And she's quite alive and running marathons...not her, Ed..."Lies, lies, Lies..."
Donald offered his resignation two times…proud and pride…tough job…, Dude…
American capitalism is suspect again...elliptical circles...WW1, WW2, WW3 (not expected or in the TV channel sweeps)...
"Medium is the message" is a famous Marshall McKluen, Mass Communication researched (and accessible) necessary reading...
Editor's Note: The media is part of the terrorism...and if not is paid off by those limited, 72 virgin praising few...
Los Angeles Times is a butt rag...and was the Copley Press's "Daily Breeze"...and those that run false articles...
Should be sent overseas...to fight...on the front lines...
And I haven't started...drinking...
Or even planned for the BA ...
Or kissed the girl's good night...
Good tequila tonight...
John Carroll of the LA Times buttrag is asserting that there's a right wing conspiracy and that for young and upcoming writers that's OK...
Those that are sucking their thumbs...and some are on drugs...
Dude...admit that you're a drinker and the Democrats will agree you're right...
Nifty challenges says the Colonel...on C-Span
And I saw your Dad smile says Marianne...
And yeah Chris I write everything down...
And remember almost everything...
"Cept the sorrow I've drowned..."
Wino...
Another elliptical journey with no future in sight...
Doesn't matter...
Bragging rights...one's in Cambria and one's in Iraq...
The third's in my hip pocket...
And on the road...
Writer's block...not me...
Pictures of fishing in Mexico might as well be Iraq...
I never had an office, son...
Well Dad, I took you fishing and my office...is cyber...and I'm not...in oil and gas...
We’re the RISK Corporate MANaGERS
You visited today...the office in Ventura...take your DAD to work...day!
Resistant to technology...ASK xHRIS...
It's more about adapting...
And technology is racing...
(That's another story)...
And Randy Johnson throws a no hitter in Atlanta and the Braves fans are cheering him...
We do have a chance for presidency in December 2004...
And I’m wearing a Pete Rose T-shirt today...that I've had since 1995.
The winos mined gold and swam in sulfur springs in Paso...
The practice is coming back and the troubles are forgotten, if not for a lonely weekend...
And there are pictures to prove it...
Dad, Randy's throwing a no no...and the return call was "he got it"...
Remember that one I threw when I was nine..."I think I was there" was the response...
Emeril live...and fish and tacos...
And Brittney called me back...
While I was making fish (not) beef and tacos and beer....
I don't drink, Dad..., or smoke cigars…Just play volleyball…
And while shopping at the local convenience store I encountered a dark-skinned native...
"I'm from Texas" and my mom's name is in the library...
"The Ventura County Archives?" I ask...
"And I'm a white man with no country but love Baja"...
"You're a wetback!" He proclaims and I laugh..."And I'll meet you at the Alamo"...is my simple response...
His English was good but I think he has moxxy, but probably no brain cells...just a simple, lifelong developed good wit...
Marion Barry smoked crack in Baltimore and Mayor Guiliani saved lives in New York...and he got drilled and responded to the 9/11 (update 2008 presidency run) investigation/dished out response today...
Giving "high-five's and back slappings" the last time I went out for dinner with the folks there...
and Chris started working there tonight...
Nice Hawaiian T-shirt, Son...
Aloha...means love and hello and good-bye...at the restaurant...
Did you know that?
Math problems, boy problems, Junior lifeguards, school field trips to Sacramento, logistics problems, dinner plans...not to mention health insurance...
And the wino lives right up the street...that's another story...he's doesn't touch the stuff, except for that bottle of SYRAH I remembered to buy for the boss...
Cabernet sauvignon for me (and I won't drink for a year) and a cabernet for the mom that she will never drink...who cares...?
This guy who has the credentials to prove it and it's not Hunter (S. Thompson)...it's Bukowski...(Charles...) Hard Times...
as I got out of my car down at the docks two men started walking toward me...
(I could be happier with a simpler life....but it's much more complicated than that....editor's note)
I still need (want a wife)....
"well guys...I finished my beer" and that's Bukowski, in a nutshell, a pistachio nutshell...
The Wino says figure out for yourself the difference between heaven from hell...
And act and become a parliamentarian...(Editor's note: Find a Webster's dictionary and look it up).
After I took your Mom to a Grateful Dead Concert and she wouldn't go inside...the fairgrounds...
We listened to their drug-induced ramblings (and extended long instrumentals) in lounge chairs with a beer and wine cooler, way cooler outside...
And today I said "I don't want Chris to grow up being like the local white sushi chef"...
And she said "He's an alcoholic"...
The Dead made Ventura economically survive...just like the deadheads and me, the oil and concert business did revive oil...and because of that we've been given the chance for more winos...and retired environmental consultants, to survive...(See photos below…)
And this poor bastard didn't even drink...(OR SMOKE)