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On a Saturday morning

Saturday 8/28/21

It's exactly eleven in the morning as I sit down to write this. In this morning, I've come up with and written two full op-eds. One of them is on Eric Clapton, the second on friendship. I've come up with a third op-ed, on Cam Newton, and how it's now apparently racist to expect someone to act professionally. I took the op-ed on friendship and I've begun creating a longer essay off of it in my head, and already have most of the piece. I watched parts of two films. I ran 10,000 stairs. I've been to Haymarket to pick up peppers, plums, cucumbers. I wrote a pitch for a piece on Sun Ra, and got that assigned. I worked on the masterpiece story that I worked on yesterday for nine hours called "Upon Becoming a Ghost," which is flat out as good as anything is going to get. I wrote this letter:


This is the second of the two op-eds I wrote. By the way, the Best Of stuff was just announced for publishing. Every loser who has published four awful works in their lives in places that no one has ever heard of, no one reads, with their circulation of 150, is at least honorably mentioned. Every one of these losers. Guess who again was not mentioned and has never been mentioned, let alone included? The best artist there has been, who has published 2500 works in the highest circulation venues there are (with an industry against him), and everything else.


There are some people who still refuse to accept what is happening here. Frankly, at this point, I don't know how that's possible. This is an entire industry--there is no exaggeration--united against one man who does things that no one else in it can do. That's what is happening. It is plainer than the nose on anyone's face. It is exactly the reality.


It's why there are three books that are about to come out, and there will be no positive coverage. I know that you think there might be, Dan. But I think what is going to happen here, with you, is you're going to accept what this is, when you see how all of that goes down. I look at these awful, awful, awful books with their starred Kirkus Reviews. It's always the same. An awful writer, with an awful book, and that means no threat, no envy, no hate. It's just garbage that can get the token praise, which isn't even meant in the slightest.


Here's the piece. Which should be something that goes viral, but it's me, and I'll be lucky to even sell it for next to no money. Everyone alive would profit by reading this.