Book of Anthony

The one thing that's always tickled my mind-fingers is correlation; a similar feeling I get sometimes like I've seen this before.  Deja-Vu?  Nope, not quite.  Because it's not the same thing exactly.  It's just similar.  They share certain characteristics.  They share the important ones, the shining ones.  The ones that matter most.  So that when I say Anthony is a prophet, I'm not saying he is THE prophet Isiah or THE prophet Jeremiah come back reincarnate.  It's not like that.  When I was a little kid, reading the Bible like I read everything else, it was what it's always been; a story.  A terrific legend, a journey through thousands of years.  And like any kid, I wondered what these characters would look like if they were here today.  Not transported through time, but if they lived among us.  Presently.  It's that same feeling that took us all to see Jurassic Park, that same question: what would it be like?  Who would they be?  And what would they do?  Maybe it's just all the years of Catholic school catching up and finding a resonance finally, but when I closed his book, finally after three years finished dissecting his mind and life and inner trappings, the first thought that came wafting through the open late morning window was, "Hmm, ,this man is a prophet.  He lived on the lamb, on the fringe, on the edge of what keeps us sane and he preached.  And he wrote and he performed for thousands.  Not for a crop of religious nut jobs, but for the people.  For everyone.  Not thousands, but millions.  And at the time of this scribbling, his Scar Tissue, for this his conscience was clear.  And in his final ode, the last chapter, his moment of clarity, he made me want to be a better person.  Yes, he is a prophet.  Plus I fell asleep high watching Michael with John Travolta last night, but who knows what that has to do with anything.

Be happy, you idiot.

Beach House

It seem so long ago now.  Beach House was playing at the Wiltern and there was a tickle of excitement in my lungs that mixed with the spliff smoke from the ride out from the westside.  I miss that excitement.  I miss it like one misses the good old days.  The best days.  The ones that harden into beautiful diamonds in the mind's eye.  The days we should've done more.  We should've slow danced to the slow songs.  Should've.  I would have maybe if I hadn't been so high.  Maybe if I'd had a beer or two instead.  Maybe if I didn't like her so much.  I think maybe I was too into the band though.  Live music will do that, it's not hard to loose yourself in.  Or maybe I was too scared.  The lady of the voice had a lion's mane, not pressed down, but fluffy and full of life.  Like a cabaret curtain.  She'd yawn a song with force and a steady angel tone like a wail that sailed up to the rafters and all around.  There was a fullness to it that anchored deep so she kept my gaze and her fingers never left the keyboard.  For some songs they would hold the long note.

Allah-Las

What do I remember about Erin?  What's there to remember besides her jumping drunk me and shoving her tongue down my throat grinding.  It seems silly to think about on a sunny day in LA.  About some night two years ago in Paris that I'm circling this stupid book around.  Among other things.  

Maybe it's the melodrama of the music.  Oh, Allah-Las.  I think I'd like to blame Sage instead so I will.  What'd the Allah-Las ever do to me?  And what'd Sage really do to me?  She's just being Sage.  Young mixed up Sage.  She reminds me of Erin, but with a flare of sexual attraction that I detest.  And I do detest it, I do.  Because that's the only attraction.  What a wicked play on emotions this is.  To the both of us.  She leaves me feeling like empty death that lingers for days.  And Lord knows what'll happen to her.  She must think I really like her, which pains me even to write because man, what a terrible twist she's in for.  It needs to end.  Damned artists.  Fuckin' Erins.

East of Eden

"Timshel."

And I said, "I know why the mockingbird sings."  I don't.  Anyone who thinks they know is a damned fool.  I imagine.  Or a Buddha, or Dalai Lama, or a Mother Teresa of inner thought, and even in their knowledge they wouldn't be certain.  Not absolutely sure.  Because to them such certainty is absurd, I'm sure.  Steinbeck, that old rascal, knew this to be true.  He knew there was nothing to quite put your finger on.  Yes, two sheep will be two sheep, today and tomorrow.  And the leaves will be green until they change and die.  He knew this obviously.  But that is because there's no question to it.  No question, "Why?"  No worth in its knowledge.  For with all things worth knowing there can never be true certainty.  It there isn't a second guess in your mind, where's the power in it?  That's why one has a pencil (he probably had a pen though, who knows).  To let the finger wander with the mind to a point of conclusion.  Or not.  If I ever find that point, my finger would stop on it, and so would my words because I would have found what I've been searching for all this time.  "Timshel," he said with his last breath.  Thou mayest.  And I just might, but probably not.  What would I write about then? About Brittany?

Ah, yes.  She was a something else.  A pretty face that always seemed to hold such wonder in it's eyes.  By brown doe eyes and a high soft voice that struck the prettiest chords that night in her bed.  She'd bite her lower lip to hold it back.  Her's was a small mouth, and a small pussy too.  Tight.  So that it held me inside her.  It was making love because in that moment I'd have done anything for her.  And who wouldn't really?  With those overflowing breasts, her athletic legs, and curves that filled out just perfectly.  Anything I tell you, anything.  In that moment I was her's.  I even offered to go down on her, and she said no because it made her timid.  And in my mind I wanted to marry her.  She is why the mockingbird sings.  But she's not the only reason.

Thanks for the book, love.

Harvest Moon

I told a girl I was a manic-depressive the other day.  She was what you call smoldering.  Some tight-bodied Connecticut vixen with blonde hair and a habit for chain smoking.  She was an artist, and she was apparently an alcoholic because she was in AA.  Four months sober.  She had little jewels right in the corner of her eyes, which usually gives me pause, but she was an artist an her body screamed like an orgasm.  In my mind anyways because I couldn't not think of fucking her when I looked at her.  Every time.  In every way.  

I should've listened to my instincts though because eventually the conversation would shine through, and it sounded familiar.  And not in a good way.  But I played along for the hell of it and for the ride. It didn't take long to realize she was a crazy.  A self-absorbed crazy, which I could maybe pin on the sobriety, but still.  That's not my cup of Joe no matter how hot the water is.  My kind of crazy is wild and carefree, and I feel as if we'd have met four or so months ago we could've been a trainwrecked pair like Bonnie and Clyde, driving around both drunk and sex-flirting.  That wasn't the case though, and as the night waned at some swag Venice house party that I didn't know anyone at, I asked her outside as we shared another cigarette.  "So Kelly," I said, "what's it that you want to do to me - with me?"

She cocked her head, confused at the question.  "I don't know," she said.  "That's a strange question to ask. I don't know."  She looked a bit put off, but hell I'd been a bit put off the whole night.

"Well, how do you see me then?" I asked.  "What do you see me as?"  I figured I'd already got her pegged, and I did for the most part.  

"I don't know. You seemed a lot like me, I guess. Interesting. Creative. Someone cool to hang out with. I don't know. I'm not really in a place right now to be intimate."  Which means she wanted a friend, and I knew that.  From experience.

"Gotcha."

"That's weird. Why'd you ask that?"  It made her uncomfortable.  I could tell.  Her cover was blown.  She was sober and she didn't want to have sex with me, and I knew it for certain now.  I had some inkling suspicions over the course of the night, especially when I'd tried to kiss her, but now I was positive. 

"I don't like to beat around the bush," I said.  "And I like to know how other's see me. Their perspectives. Because it's not always what I think. And after all, that's what defines us."

"I don't think I like that," she said.  She looked it too, like she'd smelled bum piss in an alley.  "Don't worry about what others think. Do what makes you happy. What matters is how you see yourself."  She sounded like an AA sponsor, spouting off talking points, and she was flustered, in that annoying way.

Which usually isn't a good thing if you're trying to get into a girl's pant, but that wasn't on the menu, or even in the same restaurant, so why not rattle her foundation a little bit.

"Yeah, that matters of course," I said, "but that's not what defines us. Words don't define themselves. They need other words for that. They're defined by their peers."

To which she replied, "But I'm not a word. I'm a person."

"You're a name."  I didn't say that out loud. It was in my head.  A name.  Which is kind of like a word in that it's a group of letters smashed together between two spaces. You may think you know how to describe yourself, but others know better.  Trust me.  If you don't, it'd just be like using a word in its own definition.  It's a cop-out.  It's for people afraid of hearing anything bad about themselves.  As Mr. Wallace would say, "That's pride fuckin' with you."

Fall Paris: Lindsay

And then there's days like today.  "What's it now that I'll do?" I wonder as I wake on the floor and kick off the silly short clown blanket that's covered me all night, barely, in the fetal position.  If I were to look anymore helpless, I'd have a thumb in my mouth.  See, so I'm not helpless really.  No, not at all.  My body just gets cold in the dead of night.  Is a window cracked? Yes, the one above the love-seat.  Shit, that's cold.  I shiver quick before rising.  My neck's stiff and so is the arm on the side I've been sleeping on.  My bony hips are sore at a sharp point where the bone sinks straight through the thin cushion under me and right into the hardwood. Ow.

I say to myself, "Fuck," in my head, hanging onto the 'u' for a few seconds.  When I finally rise, it's slow and I pull my head from side to side and around in a circle to try and force the rigidity out.  It works, kind of, but a lot of pain never leaves.  Lili's still in bed, but she's awake and she sees me stirring.

"I'm closing that stupid window," I say as I beeline to the love-seat.

She's still under the covers up to her neck, buried under a thick down comforter with just her hair and her cozy head poking out.  "Is somebody a little chilly?" she asks smiling.

I shoot her a mean stare over my shoulder as I fasten the window latch, and she squirms and smiles some more and pulls the sheets in closer.  What a goof, I love her.  I shake my head and forget the ache in my hips and everywhere it's stiff, and I put some coffee in the Italian press. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

[stop]

She sucks down her coffee with a cigarette.  And opens the other window to blow smoke out.  I've got a jacket on now and plus the sunlight's in full swing.  "Play the song," she commands with conviction.

"Oh, god."

"Please?" The song is "Coffee and Cigarettes by Angus and Julia Stone.  She loves this song.  She's listened to it on repeat in the morning most every day she has class and today is no different.

"Don't you ever get tired a listening to the same old song each morning?" I ask.

"Nope." She's quite certain of herself.  "It only just gets better."

"Right..." I'll never really really understand this girl, I don't think.  Which is probably why she's always so interesting to me.  Probably why I love her too, so I play her song.  And I put it on repeat.  "Let me get a drag a that at least," I say.

She rolls her eyes, but she hands me her cigarette smoothly, and I stand to stick my head out the window.  The cigarette's dancing between my fingers and the air outside is cold and nips at my face with a quick shiver.  Lili sees.  "A bit cold, eh?" she scoffs.

I blow a puff out fast and hand the stick back.  "This weather's nonsense.  I can't believe you live out here." Both hands hold my tiny tea cup with coffee in it, both clasping like a vice-grip trying to squeeze the head out.  "I'm gonna stay in today, I think."

"And do what?"

"Write my balls off."

She looks at me like I'm pretentious.  "Uh-huh."  I'm beginning to get the feeling that Lili's much more sarcastic in the mornings.  Maybe it's a coffee thing.  Maybe it's a morning thing.  Whatever it is, I snap back, "Well what are you going to do smarty pants?"  I'm snappy in the mornings.

"I got class dummy pants."

[stop]

"Free wine and num-nums at the Colombian Embassy tonight.  You in?"

"What's that now?"  I love free wine and num-nums.  And I hear Colombia's a lovely country.

"It's an AUP thing, it'll be cool.  Like a little grad-student mixer,"  Lili looks at me and after a breath of a pause and a sip of red wine, "Maybe put your nice shirt on though."  Good thing I brought one of those.

"Who's all going to this shin-dig?" I ask as I dig through my bag for my grey button-down.

"Oh, you know, a bunch of grad-school types.  Lindsay's going to meet us downstairs."

"Hmm, who's Lindsay?"  There's always a tone of intrigue in my voice, I've come to realize, when questions circle around a woman's name.  Especially with a glass of wine in my hand.

"A friend," she says, then she eyes me suspiciously.  "She has a boyfriend."

"Whatever, hussy," says I.

"You're the hussy!"

"I know."  But in truth, the boyfriend thing's a turn-off.  Not my cup of tea really.  It's more like a cup of coffee, and I hate coffee.  It's bitter and sharp and only tastes good as espresso with vanilla and creme.  For me anyways.  So I put on my one nice button-down and my one pair of nice loafers while Lili finishes with her make-up.  "Is it going to be cold?" I ask.  I already have on two undershirts, but the nights in Paris can be a bitch sometimes, especially when one's so used to California winters.

"It's eh.  Your sweater should do.  I'd bring a scarf though.  We got a little bit of walking to do," she says, so I grab my sweater and fold my scarf in half before wrapping it around my neck and pulling the loose ends through the loop.  Not tight.  Just close enough to keep the cold out.

[stop]

Then we slake down the rest of wine in our glasses, and we're off.  The six flights of servants' quarter stairs that wrap steeply around a tiny stairwell so we're never walking straight, just spiraling ever downward to the ground floor.  Then it's through the tiny courtyard and the building lobby and we're out in that orange glow of Parisian street lights.  Lindsay's just around the corner, waiting, on Rue de Grenelle.  She greets Lili like close friends do in Paris, with a smile and a hug and a kiss on each cheek. Always the gentleman, or trying to be anyways, I stand politely by looking smugly at my feet, thumbing my ring around on its middle finger roost.   "And you must be Brian," I hear, and when I look up I meet Lindsay's eyes.  They're bubbly, and they squint cutely went she smiles.

"Must I?" I say with a tilt of my head.

"Yes, you must," says Lili.

"Well, if I must, then why not.  Hello, it's a pleasure to meet you Lindsay," I say with my hand out.

"And you as well," she says.  "I've heard so much about you."

"Ha! Have you now?" I tut-tut, looking at Lili.  "Good things I hope."

"Oh, only the best.  Don't worry."  She's a little spark-plug, this one.  Well, a tall slender spark-plug actually.  What I mean is she's a riot.  An aloof redhead from the just north of the Valley back in LA.  She'd met Lili on the bus from the airport when they both first moved out, and they just so happened to both be going to the same grad school, so they'd been the best of friends ever since.  In that light, as the whole thing unfolds while we're walking , the relationship between them seems pleasantly coincidental.  Those are always the best kinds of coincidences, the pleasant ones, and we're immediately three peas in a pod.

We walk, the three peas of us, and we walk briskly because the late autumn air in Paris isn't exactly embalming.  There's a bite to it, and it nips at the fingers so I dig my hands deep in my pant pockets.  I take long strides to keep up with the girls.  They've been here, in Paris, for two years and for them night-walking through the city at this time, in this season, isn't something to be taken at a stroll.  It's a quick-footed bee-line to the embassy.

[stop]

The Colombian embassy is quite stately.  We walk up two flights of marble stairs with a stretch of red carpet trailing down the middle.  I follow the girls off at the landing and through a pair of heavy wood doors and a short hallway of white-framed mirrored walls that takes us to a small ballroom packed with young, well-dressed intellectual types.  From just stepping in, I feel a bit out of sorts.  It looks like half a suit-and-tie affair and half some doldrums of an office supplies convention, and a strange solidarity from being the only one in jeans begins to creep up and I need a drink immediately.  Luckily, Lili and Lindsay are on the same page.  Drink-wise anyways.  They're dressed to kill in smart business attire.  They look how grad students in  Paris ought to look, and they wear it fine.

[stop]

It Came To Me, Like So Many Things

It came to me, like so many things do, in the shower (I need to buy soap).

I was out of soap so I grabbed the only bar in there.  That's the thing with having to share a shower with two other roommates; someone's always got some soap in there, and right now it certainly wasn't mine, not the green bar of Irish Spring that I'd grown so accustomed to.  It was a white bar.  Dove, I think.  There was that moment's pause that comes when you do something you don't agree with, but only a moment's before I just reached down because fuck it, I needed some soap.  All the while someone in my head kept saying, "Are you really that guy? The soap snatcher? You hate that guy. Well, you don't hate-hate him. He's a nuance. He's unprepared. He's absent-minded. Don't be that guy. Don't be the soap snatcher, be the snatch soaper." Well I'll try, I guess.

Then it dawned like a quick sunrise come upon me.  It doesn't matter who I want to be now. It only matters who I am, and more likely than not that being is different in my eyes than it is in others. And maybe how I see myself matter to me, but how I come across to others matters to everyone else.  The world out there don't give a damn how I see myself. For the most part, they only notice my actions. Maybe what I say too, but actions always speak louder.  They always have.  Words can be manipulated, pretenses can be faked, feelings forged and so on.  But the way a man treats those around him tells the most.  That's because it's habit by now.  Instinctual in a sense, and instincts are very hard to break away from.  See, it's not what we believe, but what we do that defines us.  Someone said that, and I remembered.

None of us are as good as we think we are.  I may not think I'm a soap snatcher or an asshole, but I'm beginning to see that the facts state otherwise.  For now anyways.  What's that all the scholars say?  The only constant is change.

Query Letter

This is the story of an adolescent; some young punk fresh out of university trying to run away from that inevitable adulthood; he runs to where every college kid with half a wild spirit runs to around that age, he runs to Europe for two months with some friends in tow and a light bank account.

Some people tell me this is what's called a memoir, but I've always had the idea in my head that a memoir covers much more ground in the whole lapsed-time sense of the thing so I'll call this something else; it's a picture.  A snapshot.  It's a portrait; a self-portrait of who I was at that age; of what I believed in, what I loved, and how a wide loop of western Europe in the summer of 2010 brought a foggy future some clarity (not a lot, mind you; just a little bit more).  It's part travel guide, part vice analysis, part free-flowing thought as my friends and I stayed with strangers in London, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Berlin, Prague, Zurich, Rome, Barcelona, and Paris, sometimes just trying to keep food in our bellies.  Like anyone traveling there's always thought towards home, to where the heart nests, and at the time my heart rested in Santa Cruz, and everything I remembered was with fondness.  All the crazy times, all the benchmarks, all the things we talked about with the people we met in the Old World.  It's a sort of back-and-forth format; the present being Europe, the past being that last year at university.  Occasionally, it jumps between the two with each new chapter.

Me, I'm not wholly unlike any other 24-year-old out there.  I like to think I strike my own chord though.  First off, I'm left handed, and if you ask my father he'd tell you it was his doing (as soon as I learned how to grab with my fingers, he only put things in my left hand and played with it constantly or so he says).  When I was young my father liked to keep me busy.  I played basketball at the Y, I played soccer with AYSO, and I went to one kindergarten in the morning, and then another in the afternoon, and just for the hell of it I was enrolled some after-school math and reading school right through to high school.  We didn't have cable, just the antenna networks, so in elementary school I'd mostly just watch old movies and read books.  I loved the classics, and not the abridged big-fonted Illustrated Classics, but the real ones.  Big words and complex grammar fascinated me until it turned into homework.  Then, of course, I despised it, but school came easy.  It was a breeze, the whole sixteen years of it, but I never wrote for fun (except a few poems I wrote for a girl I liked in third grade).  Then in the spring of my senior year at UC Santa Cruz I met a crazy free-spirit of a girl who just happened to be the most beautiful thing I'd ever laid down next to.  She had soft skin and a pretty button nose, and she liked to take pictures and make drawings with charcoal, and for some reason that led me to buy a leather-bound notebook that caught my eye on a bookstore sale rack.  On the first page I wrote her sweet nothings and tore it out and gave it to her, and I've been writing with a sort of hair-pulling manic-depression ever since.  Two and a half years later I self-published this book, and the most pressing thing I feel now is the weight of more books I need to write on the horizon.

If you're still reading this, I thank you sincerely for your consideration and the time this took out of a no doubt busy day.  I've attached an early galleys pdf that included a table of contents for you to peruse at your pleasure.  And if you like, I'd be more than happy to mail you a copy of the finished work (the publishing house gave me a bunch of e-books on plastic cards, and I've got a few hard copies left that I haven't sold yet.