Thursday, December 05, 2013

Letter to those he loves most in this world...preamble to my novel YELLOW MONKEY BARS & UNBIDDEN ERECTIONS-a failed campaign-...

The novel in autumn 2004 (note floppy and zip drives) phuckava sprawling-ass manuscript....

I don’t remember it like it was the proverbial yesterday but I remember it vividly nonetheless. I was blanketed in a sheath of autumnal light rereading a copy of Irvine Welsch’s TRAINSPOTTING next to a window on the sixth floor of Milner library at Illinois State University. It was after Vanessa and the van o’ Hale and smoking cigars while desultorily driving around feelin’ too good to go into work today. It was after Zachary was born. After drinking beer while basking in the incendiary glare of a bonfire at Jackie’s out on Airport road. After Laurianne had returned to France (and Patrick had traversed overseas to find her once again). It was after the dissolution of B. Dalton and Maid-Rite and a movie. After a voluptuous  Amber (calling Hale, myself answering mistaking him for another less fortunate David) thanked me gratuitously over the phone for the flowers I had purportedly sent her for her boob job (note: did she say ‘boob’?).  It was after the Drac mobile, after imbibing infinite amounts of unlimited carafes of coffee while performing botched Tarentino impersonations coddled between the vinyl nests of clattering banter that was Lums.  

It was after Freudian Press had dissolved.

It was after our sojourns to Wyld Side cabaret.

After Hale planted his grandparents into the scalp of the planet.

It was well after Patrick’s all-night-birthday party extravaganza where we would each woof down an entire Little Caesar’s Pizza while clacking dice before disappearing into the woods for pre-dawn water gun warship. It was after Downs Circle, after Warren espied Patrick perusing a Playboy which he deemed was merely a tattered copy of ‘Nintendo Power.’

It was after Marvel and DC. After the Yellow Monkey bars at CLS had been uprooted to pave way for an additional basketball gymnasium.

It was after, yet before, Metallica started to royally suck goats.

 Ironically, it was around the same time Lums on Western shushed the welcoming tint of its doors for all eternity.

It was autumn; thirteen expired eliptical loops around the sun ago when sitting in the milner Library I decided to chronicle the foibles of those friends’ whom I love most of all in this world, toimmortalize our misadventures via words aiming  for a fifty page manuscript by Christmas.

 On Halloween I came back to Peoria with twelve double spaced comic-sans goth fonted pages (none of which still exist). By the holidays it was 120. By Easter that year three hundred (sing-spaced).  I worked as a Teacher’s Aid, moved in with Dave Thompson on High Street. When my father died suddenly in Feb ’02 the manuscript was 600 pages (maybe 100 of which have sieved into the final draft).

It sat like a fecund hen waiting to lay a Faberge egg. I went back to Bradley. I worked 80 hours a week. I lived with Hale. I lived with a Psychic who will perennially be Gandalf to my Frodo. I lugged the manuscript with me everywhere I went like a sac of irish potatoes the day after the feminine ended. I referred to it as my illegitimate daughter.

"Want to see a picture of my illegitimate daughter?" I would ay before plopping down the 500 page dossier of hurt.

I revised incessantly. In august 2003, three years after I had started the ‘script, I had a break through and started pissing out ten pages a day. The bulk of the manuscript was castrated. I began  again. When I graduated Bradley 2005 the draft resembled very little of the product I had intended it to be (note: you should see the outakes in the WWII chest in my mom’s basement). I handed Dr. Palakeel a 700 page  draft for my senior project. I got hired on at the library full time.  I fell in love with a classy girl who has lived in Europe for the past six years and wrote her a love letter a day for over a year. That autumn day when (with the help of Hale) still ranks as the best of my life, even though we never fucked and I ended up in the hospital with what could best be delineated as a metaphysical breakdown.

 Somehow I kept writing and somehow the manuscript continued to gain literary calories not to mention, in tandem with its author, a robust beer belly. By autumn 2007 the manuscript was over a thousand pages, a thousand pages that had been hemmed and hawed and bleed over, a total of 350,000 words.

The manuscript went on the backburner. I started giving a shit ton of local poetry readings. I read my work on a local avant-garde artsy radio station. I got fired from Bradley. I moved back in with Uncle Mike, the house on Heading avenue, placing a writing desk in the woods, the same woods that I had immortalized in  novel years earlier never having a clue that I would be crashing in (Nate Lockwood's granpas) house one day.

 I continued to write poems. I went to Hollywood and performed at a cool bar with some of the most salient up-and-coming writers in the country. I come back home where every writer in Peoria fucking hates me.

Such is the life of a writer. Such is the pleading, curdled vagaries of time.
                                                      *      *      *      *     *

In the stately Stephen King throne christening my every literary ambition, Yellow Monkey Bars and Unbidden Erection is my Dark Tower. My Infinite Jest. My Ulysses. My War and Peace, intrinsically, my life work. I have lived with it for almost a third of my life, a joy surpassed only by dual friendships Patrick (25 years) and Hale (27). The manuscript has served as my rod and my staff, it has held me up in hard times, like my two friends holding me up, refusing to allow my emotional mettle to succumb as I witnessed the final stanza od breath echo from my own father’s body.


The novel will be released on line close to it’s current (somewhat addled, somewhat brilliant) incarnation.  Some of the names will be changed cause I don’t want to get sued, but rudiments, capturing the breath of our youth and the vowels of our dreams (and West Peoria and failing and loving and giving) remain the same.

I will publish a different fractal daily for (shit) about the next 200 days. Sometime in DEC I’ll create a Facebook page but for now, everyday, click on the link b’low and you’ll find your Christmas gift from 13 years ago unraveling itself like a Dungeons & Dragons avatar map. The first 150 pages are almost completely autobiographical. Later on (as you know) the majority is Fictitious as fuck.
I’ll release a chronological ‘chapter’ every day with a reference to pg #’s to the original. Sometime in June when the final chapter is posted we will drink like there is no t’morrow.
So happy holidays and thank you for years of friendship and (in the immortal patois of Patrick ‘smarter than you) McReynolds, “Life is short. Times are hard. Here’s your fucking Christmas card.”
 Without further ado I give to you my heart, YELLOW MONKEY BARS & UNBIDDEN ERECTIONS-a failed campaign.
I hope you enjoy.
In eternal brotherhood.


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