Wolves must have been bigger yesteryear. And would I be mistaken in concluding their bellies contained a vinegar-weak acid, too? When Red Riding Hood came to visit her grandmother, that old hussie had been in the wolf's belly long enough to stink. By the time the huntsman showed up with his axe, grandma had been wolf toast nearly a day. But when old Fritz sliced open Wolfey McCheeserson, out popped grandma no worse for wear. She lit a cigarette, farted and went to the refrigerator for some milk. Then Red and Fritz went next door to the Cozy Hammock Motel for a little medieval siesta together. And thus, Goldilocks was born. Or something to that effect.
I sometimes wonder what I've done to myself to be so stupid. I remember about 15 years ago, I had a sharp mind, driving curiosity, insatiable hunger to write and learn. Now that I'm in my early thirties, I don't even want to leave the house. I would just as soon have one hand down my pants, and the other tipping back a beer while I watch Arnold Schwarzenegger movies end to end.
It might have been drinking. I didn't start young. In fact, I didn't start having drinks until I was nearly 25, and only because my psychologist suggested I loosen the fuck up. But I remember my mind before I drank, and it was better, faster, stronger. The last time I had a drink was weeks ago, and it was a beer with dinner. I don't sleep well as it is, and alcohol keeps me awake. So one would assume it couldn't be drinking that's dulling the edge, but then I don't know.
Or maybe it's something else. I usually blame my dumb mind on itself. I figure if I was born to be a genius writer, I would, in fact, be a genius writer. No struggle. Do you think Melville struggled? Or what about Hemingway? Or how about Poe? I'm not saying these guys didn't experience their own problems, but I'm also not saying I can sit down and write like any of them. When I write, it's like a fart in church - no one wants to hear it, and damn sure no one wants to smell it.
Writing has become cumbersome again. When I sit in a coffee shop each Saturday, I stare at a blank screen. For eight to nine hours. Blank screen. That's after I've read the news from four outlets. I find myself resting languid within the belly of the wolf, and time has almost stopped. But it hasn't, and that's the problem - it's speeding right past me. June is already on the out, 4th of July is around the corner, and then half the damn summer's burnt. I might as well cash in my State Fair tickets now and put on some Gold Bond, because I'll be damned if the end of summer hasn't already crept up.
Where did my youth go? What have I been doing with my life? And the frightening question is where am I going from here?
I don't think living in Des Moines helps. I can't even pay three hobos to take a shit on one of my books. Granted, I might have a better chance if I bought them a six pack first, but Jesus, that's asking alot don't you think?
I should probably just break down and buy into this pretentious Des Moines Social Club scene one of these days. I bet if I grew an ugly beard and put people down all the time, I could be accepted into their elite clique. Then I'd sell a book or two; or at least I could give a few copies away to some uninspired sycophants who pop up at art shows for the free hors d'oeuvres. I urinate on them. I just want to break into their Toyotas and shit between the seats - one big ass ripping tear right between the cushions, like a massive Italian sausage sandwich between foam buns.
Then again, if Red and Granny didn't rely on the hipster huntsman, they'd both have been wolf shit after a while. So is that it? I have to wait for some axe swinging, grotty beard-wearing drunkard to pull me out of this?
I've been kicking rocks up and down old railroad tracks the last few months (Shortline Yard, and Glake Yard in DSM, and the Humboldt yard in MPL). I've been getting lost between steel and ballast, uncovering bits of burnt down history, but I'm not writing. I'm in the belly of a wolf and I can't get out.