my horrible wife

I saw the outline of my evil wife’s body from miles away. She is a horrible brick bitch who will tear your heart out and feed it to some yuppy skank for thirty dollars a plate while looking you in the eyes with a look that says “all your dreams are bullshit, go get a fucking job.”

Chicago. I hate you.

When you’re with her in the sun she holds your sweaty hand and she says “trust me… I am not crazy.” So you trust her and you make plans for her and before you know it she owns you. Then one day this cloud pulls in over your head as if an unworldly space ship is pulling into place just above the skyscrapers which look like they fell into place in a game of Tetris that the Gods were playing while they were ignoring their responsibility to make the world a place that is worth living in. A chill will pass by you then and that chill will cut through all of your clothes and you can be assured that your good times are over.

You keep your job in the hopes that one day the relationship will get better and for seven or eight months you sit under the weight of this fucking space ship and you think: if this shit doesn’t change I will have to leave, but you’re never going to leave.

To leave her one must amass an energy efficient enough to break her inertia and that task takes the giant engines of planes all working in unison. The bus won’t take you fast enough and the train leaves you linearly connected straight to the center of her heart and she will call and call until you come back, but when you come back, sun or not, she will never be the same again.

You can try to fix the love, but that shit is never going to come back.

I am in a cafe now listening to the idle chatter of hipsters, of which I have no shame in admitting that I am one. The bike rack out front is an ever rotating show of fixed gear force, at any one time bolstering upwards of five thousand dollars worth of bike. The machines make noise, the till opens again and again, and none of us are doing anything worth speaking about.

The best part of this relationship is that, in the absense of love one is left with a bizarre kind of loneliness which might be akin to the kind that John the Baptist felt though there are no trees to speak of here. There is only concrete and brick and unhappy people unhappily working to unhappily spend their money in dirty bars on cheap beer when they are done.

You can lose yourself here, and if your head is on right and you walk long enough you can get so lost that the whole place becomes a kind of spectacle unlike any other, especially when you factor in how medicated all of the people are and how antiquated any place of production is. This place was built to produce, but now it only consumes. In that way it is like the spirit of America.

It is like the spirit of America in more ways than that though. For instance: it is too busy for you, its plate is simply too full. It is built for utilitarian purposes but exploited as an object of luxury. It drips grease and oil and other contaminants without concern into every edge of “nature” that it touches. These are all purely American values.

I came here out of compulsion and need. There was little, if any, want in the decision.

I am holing up on the floor of Brother Bird’s apartment and I will not leave until my book is written because, to be frank, I am sick of my own voice constantly spewing all of this bullshit about something that I am not sure that I can do, so I will just do it to have it done.

I spent the day on the telephone calling every company I could stomach the idea of working for and I think that I found a position doing the exact same thing, in the exact same place, I was before I left on this crazy mission across the country to accrue stories.

Having completed that mission I spent the next two hours on the modern version of an international telephone talking to a girl who stole a feature role in my life whom I left waiting in Brighton with a list of apologies and a sweatshirt that smelled like me. It seems that she stopped waiting. I do not care. I will continue to build my nest for her because that has been my mission since I left her and I know that this is what I want to do because I am stubborn and cannot let something go until it is done.

I was a fool and I got lost. I thought she would always be there… but that is not the case.

Maybe she will come back… maybe she will ask me to come back to her. Whatever the condition of our reunion I will not stop living in this fever dream of the time that we spent with her, nurturing its every fledgling breath with dream food and nonsense because it is the best dream that I have ever had.

I renounce the normal world. I will devote my life to being a space car driver. I will live in a dream until the rational world kills me and in that way I will be a martyr for a cause that never mattered to anybody but me.

Long live the individual story and the hope for a world outside of the boring parameters of this concrete shithole that we find ourselves in day in and day out.