September 27th, 2021 - Desire
Dear TNY,
“Desire” is a pile of shite. See what I did there?
Man, I don’t even have the energy for this. I’m a day late, which has only happened four times in almost four years. I was driving a man and his goods from Anchorage, AK to the coast of Oregon. It took five days of effort, and the road took us up and above rivers, rolled us over hills, carried us through the swamps of sadness, took us through a portal and into another universe in which this one (the one where you ruin an artform with this puddle of defective horse jizz) didn’t exist, spat us from severe mountains with no names into the cleft of a river valley so spectacular I will fail to deliver a proper description of it here. We made it through two border crossings and a Fish and Game search. We sucked the gastank down to the warning light, but did not fail. Together, we saw the Anal Slumber Queen, the Anal Prowler, the Anal Dutch Star, and the Anal Passport (of which I’m still waiting to be issued), among other RVs. I’m telling you all of this to tell you that the guy, he was the best part. A true specimen of the art.
And yet, he exists and you print this fucking drivel. There were seven characters in the first five sentences. Not one of these people, by the end of this “story”, achieved reality. The sentences were mostly overwrought and full of their own cleverness (but not so clever as to hide the cleverness). And the plot is, what? I don’t fucking know. A million people kept talking about shit that didn’t matter and you printed it. Do you know why? Because these people are you. These people are the majority of people on the planet. Taking this actual once in a fucking lifetime experience and throwing it out the window in a perceived since of importance. You aren’t important. This story isn’t important. Your fiction isn’t important (I almost said magazine, but Harvey Weinstein going to jail is important; I’ll leave the other comments about #metoo on the cutting-room floor). This world, America in particular, has become the place of shallow people engaging in superficial conversations about perceived victimhood at the hands of unearned entitlement. And yet, this man, in the 26’ foot sandhill crane adorned U-haul, who has seen and documented the raw truth, who has outlined the invisible seams stitching this world together, the ones you ignore in your art, favoring, instead, the act of being a Burger King commercial for the literary industrial complex, this man is adrift in the mountains, as it were, the samesaid miles of them with no names, agog at their glory, him, shining beautifully, completely untouched by your buffoonery, and so impossibly far from you pages that it hurts to think about. That’s a crime against art you’ll never be tried or convicted for, TNY.
I know this is the voice of insanity to say this, but maybe I’m not the problem. Maybe it’s the Hella argument all along: I’m not good at this, not nearly as good as I want to be, but everyone else is just so fucking bad at it. You guys don’t know Hella. She’d hate you fuckers. She’s my favorite employee of all time, because she cared so goddamn much.
So, congrats on publishing this complete waste of time. Congrats on a career that will be looked on by other plebes as something worth doing. Congrats on wasting your life. Congrats on creating a meaningful effect on the world for the plebes (giving them a reason to believe they are smart and connected and well read, even though they aren’t), for the “insane” (people like myself, who believe in the truth of Art, a lasting rage within us you have made), and for everyone else smart enough to see how fucking unimportant your stories are, so much so they live real fucking lives off your pages that never get sullied by your pompousness.
Wow. Maybe I am busted. All this over a 5300 word pile of shit.
Until next time, turdlickers.
Nick
