Metal NOT Mental mother fucker (why I said this profanity might make sense in a second)
Back when I was studying philosophy in college I had absurdly weird dreams while reading Heidegger. What’s even weirder, is that I wouldn’t see pictures of physical things like trees and hills and what not, but it was vivid three-dimensional cartoon letters falling in darkness like stars. It was weird. I told people. They said it was weird. Then we laughed and went to class. after that, we drank beer.
So I’m done working on my book for the day, and probably for the week, because I’m starting to be able to estimate a reasonable done date, I don’t know yet, but it looks like it should be completed and ready to be sold on the twenty-seventh of this month, which is august. And I don’t want to stop for the day but I know when I have to, and I have to now, for a few days. I need to enjoy the end of summer and walk and read and think about what I’m going to do when this book is done and September arrives. I need to get away from the screen and out of this room. In the long run I need to get out of this state and town, living wise, for the rest of my life.
Writing a book is a bad idea. My eyes look tired lol and My life is still a damn mess, and I know that Writing wont change that, and after going back and forth to Chicago for a couple of months I don’t know if I want to live there or if it wants me to live in it. My money I saved up for a year is all but gone and working shit jobs and heading back into the job search sounds terrible. I think I received ten letters in the last month of apologies saying that they don’t want me to work for them. I don’t get why they send anything. It makes no sense. We’re adults. You realize they don’t want you if you don’t hear back soon after you send, that is at least usually. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll start looking out west again or go somewhere if i make anything off my book. Last time I made enough to buy inspiration to keep going and that’s about it. Anyway this isn’t suppose to be this kind of post. So let’s move on.
On the strange side…
I’m pretty disciplined regardless of my drunken weekend debauchery. I’m On page 155 fourth draft of a book, and I’ve been having a real hard time regulating my life lately because I’ve been working so much that it’s started to kinda freak me out a bit and cause me to have some possible existential conflicts of interest between a fictional novel and reality. I wake up and just feel weird. For the first two hours there’s this constant feeling of whatever, as if everything is pointless. The book was written free-flowing and the editing is just so precise, and sometimes Instead of words when I’m typing it’s very visually dreamlike . This isn’t as crazy as it sounds, I think, who knows, probably just normal creative problems, but at the same time often you lose yourself and think the thoughts of voices that do not exist but only on the page. lol. it’s confusing and I don’t think I’ll write a book this fictional ever again. It’s been a son of a bitch. Glad I’m a young man, or I’d probably kill myself. The things we put our minds and bodies through, for the sake of living. man oh man…
This is a section (from The Going) that refers to the first words of this post, the one with the bad word.
“The building had huge For-Sale Signs all over its brick walls and looked like merchandise on clearance racks that nobody wanted even though it was ninety nine percent off. There was broken glass all over what used to be the outside employee lunch break area, and the grass was green and weedy and dirty and long, and even the barbed wire that the city put up now looks harmless, because it’s been drooping down and washed then rinsed and tossed back and forth through the passage of one too many light and heavy storms, humid and dry and cold storms; the wire that is over fences and barricades and broken windows has gone through constant stress. The metal fish hooks that used to be able to defend for the banks and the sellers now look like old useless screws that hang like dead flowers from a vine of clay rust.”
Final Note: editing is like surgery for me. I zoom in and out. I squint and swear. I stop breathing and try to remain calm as I stand back folding my arms. Sometimes it takes me three hours to find a one letter mistake in a 300 word cluster. Part of this is based on who I am, part of it is because writing is hard, and when you’re done the only guarantee you have, is that the patient that will be your book, is going to die.
I’ll see you later, unless the sun eats us, and if that happens, I guess I’ll see you in hell. (Han Solo Said That When he went to save Luke on hoth..ha!)
Heidegger concludes his 1969 German television interview with Richard Wisser in the following way:
“No one knows what the fate of thinking will look like. In a lecture in Paris in 1964, which I did not give myself but was presented in a French translation, I spoke under the title: “The End of Philosophy and the Task of Thinking.” I thus make a *distinction* between philosophy, that is metaphysics, and thinking as I understand it. The thinking that I contrast with philosophy in this lecture—which is principally done by an attempt to clarify the essence of the Greek “aletheia” (unhiddenness) — this thinking is, compared to metaphysical thinking, much simpler than philosophy, but precisely because of its simplicity it is much more difficult to carry out. And it calls for new care with language, not the invention of new terms, as I once thought, but a return to the primordial content of our own language, which is, however, constantly in the process of dying off.
A coming thinker, who will perhaps be faced with the task of really taking over this thinking that I am attempting to *prepare,* will have to obey a sentence Heinrich von Kleist once wrote, and that reads “I step back before one who is not yet here, and bow, a millennium before him, to his spirit.”
I could speculate, but I don’t know what that sentence means, and I don’t know if I want to.
P.S I know what it means now.
Adventures In American Writing 
I can relate ;-)