Messenger Services – Part 1

Got to keep focussed and eyes off of book reviews. They kind of just slug into your gut if you’re expecting something else. Must push through and take it as it comes. This is the world we are stepping into. Need to focus on what’s ahead of me and realize that critics are going to be out there and though you need them, and hope to please them, you cannot relent in your need to push forward. Must stay focussed on the task at hand, which is completing the next book and finishing strong. If people say that the last book did not finish as it should have, we must correct the mistakes in this one and push forward. Always onward. The structure of the novel is the work that needs to be done – so however to do that – however to correct that, we’re going to need to find a way. I cannot question my methods at this point because – well, perhaps I can question my methods here. It’s part of the structure of things. I need to take the time to finish and craft so I can satisfy these critics however I can. Perhaps even go about satisfying myself.

So we move again down to those streets. Do people just want that moving eye through things and then gallop towards and ending? I’m dizzy from that last review I have to admit, so please forgive the unbalancing act here. The theme – have to remember the theme of everything in order to continue. There is such little time to write any of it down – I can’t believe it. The mornings are not enough. I guess the searching part.

Should concentrate on that and move out.

The Bike Messenger

It was early on a Friday. That was street cleaning day in the Mission district. People were groggy and out early to move their cars so not to get towed and taken to the impound lot clear on the other side of town where the busses didn’t go. I walked early in these times because the fog had yet to lift and you could still wear a hoodie and feel like you were moving on a river instead of through a city. There were always so many disguises in the city that were mistaken for identity.

Loosing my job, my life’s work, was my identity. It was my pride. With those gone, I was just wandering, which can at times, when you look back, be the best thing for you, but in the middle of it, you are as weightless as the fog and as unable to perform for yourself because your center – the very thing inside of your gut, is empty and crumbling upon itself. It’s not until total destruction of that self takes place that you can fully be reborn.

The fog was not lifting. The stumbling people coming out to move their cars in their sleeping clothes looked like a zombie movie. Everyone, though not fully awake, at least had a direction and a purpose to their movements. I had nowhere to be. My shoulder felt light without the radio on it announcing where I should move next. My stomach rumbled for food but I told the emptiness that we’d get something in the morning. I had to give up smoking right there. No need to be broke and buying yourself luxury items like that.

Cars moved slowly through the streets looking for a safe place. The dealers were out early in Delores park. At that time, it was still only weed, which kept the cops from cracking down and closing things up. I hadn’t seen my girl in a few days and I knew she was anxious but patient. I couldn’t sit with her while things were this uncertain. For her, the closing of the Messenger shop wasn’t as huge of a blow. She was one of those people in a holding pattern waiting to grab the success that was certain to come for her. Without me and without the job, she’d be better off. Love doesn’t work in such logical terms, so all I could do was let time pass on that one.

Through the fog, I noticed her movements coming towards me.


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