her words awakened
physical pain
in him
the mere sound of them
was like
claws scratching against
his brain
When she's old enough,
a mother can
hurt her son
like she never could in
her youth
Listening to her
now,
he felt like crying
And she wasn't even
cursing him
She just looked around
and then finally set
her eyes on him
and repeated the
same question
"When is he
coming home?"
"But mother, I am home,"
he cried. "It's me!"
But in reply
she would only make a
confused face
and start looking around
again
and ask the same
question again
She was
only 62
and aside from her
mind
everything was healthy
about her
which only meant that
they'll both be
stuck in
this hell
for longer
Years that will
feel like decades
by the time she was done rolling that cigarette it looked like a broken, gnarly twig regardless, she put it between her lips, lit a piece of nacho on fire and used that to light the cigarette and then just watched the nacho burn until the flames reached her fingers “Do you remember when dreams used to have colors?” she asked “Color?” he said, and thought about it. “Yeah, it was back in the days when I was a kid and movies were black and white.” She watched him through a veil of smoke that she thickened by blowing some more. “Wow, you’re, like, old as fuck then.” “Old enough to know there were better times, dear. Way better times. When dreams had color and sound…” “Listen,” she said, “is this a rant on technology and how it fucks our minds an’ all that?” “What? Not at all. I mean…
this was needed
One more
strong coffee
one more
poem
and then he
would go to
sleep
it was
almost morning
he would sleep
during the day
and
return the next
night
to write
more poems
His lower back
was hurting
It was either the
kidney stones
or
the hemorrhoids
or both
or something entirely
new
Well,
it was all right
A writer writes
and a sick man
suffers
and they are quite
the same
At 44
his wife was 22
years younger than him
She would still
make him coffee
and cook his meals
and even read his poems
The ones that weren’t
about torturing
and murdering women and
children
even got published online
About eleven
of them
He was on
the right path
Success will reach him
earlier than
death will
It was a matter of
days for
both
"He started writing," she
said, talking
about her
father.
"He's an old man now. Had
me when
he was in his
late forties. You'd think
late forties would
be enough to realize
that a man is crazy, but
well, not my mother
I guess. Or perhaps it was
the craziness that
attracted her to him. I'll never
know.
He says that writing is
something you can
do until you drop
dead, unlike
sports where you can only be
truly good when you're
young, in your prime.
Also, he's
one of those artists who
believe that
one must suffer for art. I tried
telling him that's just
plain stupid,
but despite all my efforts he
still sprinkles
razor blades on his bed
when he goes to sleep. He moves
at night
of course
and of course he gets plenty
of cuts. All over his body.
And every time he gets a cut
he stands up,
turns on the light,
and sprays rubbing alcohol on
the cut.
He says it works 100% of
the time.
Instantly he gets inspired,
grabs the muse by
the throat, as he puts it.
There's a laptop on his nightstand,
ever turned on,
and he immediately starts
writing as the
blood seeps out of
the wound. When the inspiration
wains he grabs the bottle
of rubbing alcohol and
sprays some more. There's no
writing without pain, he says. And
of course
all his stories are
about pain and suffering.
He's even got one in which
this old guy
who never did anything worthwhile
in his life
finds himself paralyzed in
his armchair
from the waist down.
How he can't do shit
and just cries
and begs death to take him
already. But he doesn't really
want to go. He knows that all
his life has been lived in vain.
He never made one
soul happy as long
as he lived.
So he gets this idea that if only he can
make one soul happy
before departing forever
he had not lived in vain.
In part two of
the story he
starts cutting pieces of his own
flesh, from the legs
in which he's got no
feeling, and throws them
out the window for
the mongrel dogs and
street cats to feast on. Then he
dies in peace,
knowing that he'd made at least
a few souls happy."
"Did he really write that,"
I asked
"Sure did," she said. "And many
more. He doesn't care
about publishing
though. He just knows that
the world will discover his
art after he'll be gone. I guess
he made his
peace with this."
"Shit," I said, "listen, could I
read that story myself?
Or any other
of his?"
"Like I said, he won't
share his
writings with an audience. Only
postmortem, he says."
Well, after that evening
every time I met her
I kept asking
about her father.
He was still
alive and
writing
He also got diabetes
from all the
glasses of coca-cola
mixed with
six or seven spoonfuls
of sugar he drank
to replenish his blood,
but that was
all right, apparently it only
made him write better
now that he had more
suffering in his life
he also refuses to see
or be seen
by any doctors
or psychiatrists
Well, I don't want much
from him, only
to know that
he's got a big fan
in this world
Daydreaming as a profession 