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Friday 10/25/19

Jesus Christ, brother man, how are you doing this? What the fuck is happening here? How is this even possible? 2200 word story called "Big Bob and Little Bob" composed yesterday, 1100 word story composed this morning called "Rate of Geode." Fifty-two short stories since June 2018. Fourteen in less than three weeks.

I need to exercise now. I walked three miles yesterday and climbed the Monument twice, which obviously is not very much. I may have a slight chest issue which I cannot let develop into anything, and the way one handles that is to not give in to it and to train it right out of your system. With Monument climbs, in my case.

I think there is an op-ed in today's Wall Street Journal, but I have not checked and maybe it was bumped again.

This morning--it is about ten o'clock now--I received a text from Emma that said, "I love you. Today will be a good day." Yesterday I received an email from a woman I know somewhat. I know she's kind and thoughtful. I know she has character. One time someone on Twitter with a million followers or whatever put out a call in his feed for people to recommend good blogs to follow, he was looking for some. And this woman suggested mine, saying it was pure genius. Of course, this being me, I picked up not a single follower or subscriber, but one must understand, that in my world, right now, a post like that is exponentially more help and endorsement I get from just about anyone, or have ever gotten. It's basically total non-support, and always has been. This person had a birthday recently and it was their first birthday since losing a parent, and I asked if I could send a little something, which turned out to be "Fitty." And she wrote me and said that I cannot quit, that I give her a reason to keep living. That meant a lot to me. I do think that is how my work connects with people, when it has a chance to be seen by them to connect with them. By being seen, I mean without interference. That is someone looking at it directly, with intent--that is, not stumbling across a few lines in the mega-maelstrom of a trillion things flying at you--or with endorsement, someone else saying, "Good Lord, you must see this person's work, what they are doing." Without interference, I can change the world to the good more than anyone ever has, but it's all static and hum and blackness right now, it's almost total-interference.

Emma texted me yesterday on the T to school, and said she had something of a physical problem, that has been reoccurring lately and she was worried. I need not be specific, though she would be, because she's like Montaigne in these matters--no shame, she'll share any bodily function thing. I told her to go to the nurse, and asked if she wanted me to bring her a change of clothes. I actually had the same issue the summer right before my freshman year of high school. I had a hockey game I wanted to play in. I was playing with the varsity guys, during their late summer league. And my dad said no, I wasn't going, because this issue might have occurred again, and kids are cruel, and there can be stuff you don't live down. He didn't specify all of this, but I knew that's what he was thinking.

I don't know how someone can read these pages and not know who Emma is at this point, but somebody the other day thought she was my kid, so I will re-set. Emma is the gifted fifteen-year-old who lives upstairs in my building. She contends with some tricky hurdles--anxiety, depression. She has real gifts, I have known no one like her. She simply came into this world with more mental acuity than people get. What she elects to do with this--and whom she becomes as a person, morally--is a somewhat separate issue, and while I am no overseer of those matters, for ultimately what comes comes from the person, I do try to at least reflect and reveal what I can. We talk about things we both like, like Tod Browning and Joy Division, we share books, we recommend shows and films and music to each other, I print out my work for her and write a little note on each story, we go to movies, the ballet, women's hockey games. And we are friends. It's an improbable, unique friendship, but neither of us are very probable people, both in our very different ways. Friends and family at this point, I would say. I love her very much and I would do anything for her. She's funny and precocious and she writes really well and I help her with her writing. We walk her dog Benny, which her family got for emotional support, and we sit in cafes and talk. She used to play hockey and she goes to an art school now. I'm close with her mom, Susan, and her dad is one of the two best read people in Boston.

We haven't been hanging out a lot lately--or hardly at all--but I know there is some stuff going on with her, and it's kind of hard to reach her right now, but these things are phasic. She texted me about one of the new stories, "Net Drive," which she loved, which is one of my ten or twelve all-time favorites I've done, which everyone has been loving. The impact "Fitty" could have is similar to the impact this one could have. A story of now. And the best piece of sports fiction ever written, but it's so much more than that. An excerpt will be up soon. There are a few planned things that are going to be happening in these pages. That's not what should be happening--even excerpts going up on here. The publication should be an event with work like this. Someday, soon, hopefully. Right now, I will put up a few lines, because look how they mount, how can one but look at these pages, see the real time art interspersed throughout these journal entries, it's charting, in plain view, something no one has ever done before. There it is, day after day. Even I am asking how it is being done now, but I also know most of the answer.

Okay. Time to climb. Zulus do not become warriors by sitting on their ass.


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