Downstairs the Con Ed people have been working all night to keep the electricity on for us. I should be getting up earlier to put all of this down. Never really enough time these days. It’s all changed already – there’s no reason to fight in the present day. The battles are over there. The digital age has one, so not to embrace it would be a mistake that could cost you your life. However, the beauty of fiction is that here, in these words, we can wage a war in the past. Not sure what I’m trying to do at this point. It’s the time in a novel when all seems lost. When the world that you’re trying to create is there like some animal behind a cage in the zoo and they are just moving back and forth behind the bars and you start wondering whether or not you should have put them behind the bars in the first place or just let them run free and be. What right do I have to try and capture these words and put them on display? The man who wrote the book – he say that words are the worse way to communicate. That it’s all feelings. The higher feeling that we should go with. The words deceive. Perhaps that’s all there is is deception.
Well then, let’s bring that form of deception into the story. Again, this is the arc – the point where the book can fall flat. I can’t hold it up here with words or structure – the story has to walk.
Well then walk damn it.
Who’s going to tell it?
Everyone was getting their pockets fat – that’s for sure. I guess for most of the people involved, except for Vince – he was totally on his own thing, but for most of the people there – well, they needed the loot. I think they enjoyed what we were after as a group, fighting the digital transformation of the city, but cash in your hands makes it all different. Alberto and his lady were going to the best places to eat in the city – and these weren’t those old school places where the Italian guy would tell you stories about his family coming over and putting in a lifetime so his son who do better for themselves. These were the places in China Basin and south of Market that were popping up and filling themselves with the bugs that had swarmed to the city and kicked out everyone else. Seems to be a theme in many of the things I’m writing these days – damn – I’ll have to hide it in the rewrites. Again, I’m lost and drifting here, closed in. That’s what San Francisco does to you. It opens its arms very wide and then squeezes you so tight you suffocate on your own perceived freedom.
So that’s what’s happening inside of this right now. You’re taking my breath away with these questions and asking me to relive it all. How do you know I’m not just making it up like in the movies? Can I have something to eat or to read or anything, anything to distract me from all of this. I’m sure they are in here telling you stories and trying to put it all on me – well that’s a bunch of horse shit if you ask me. I was the one who wanted to do something – to create a life for all of us to lead – but nobody saw me as the leader and they just followed Alberto because he spoke, well, he was amazing with how he spoke. Myself I just ramble on – wondering where my ambition got in the way of what we had done. I told them though that we needed more.
I have no idea where this is going. The dark times of write. The middle passage for sure. Lost at sea and you start thinking about turning back and starting on a new course, but on that mission you’re going to have that piece in your head that just pushes it out of you. That just levels it all to the ground in a way where you can’t walk anymore. That’s where I am. Maybe I should have just finished the Los Angeles story – like so many shipwrecked writers.
This is what it’s like sometimes.