January 17th, 2022 - Fireworks

Dear TNY,

Fuck “Fireworks” and the piece of shit horse it walked in on.

I mean, what’s the goal with publishing this?  To record the fictionalized random musings of a WWII vet amidst life problems backlit by The Cold War?  Is that interesting?  Not like this it isn’t.  Not for one goddamn minute.  This story doesn’t do a fucking thing.  There’s no place for me to put my empathy.  It’s just rambling and rambling and rambling.  Pointlessly so.  Much like this website, likely.

I would love to see what Lish would do with a story like this.  He’d probably make it better.  Or this woman I know from college.  JFF.  She would cut the shit out of this, take away all this bullshit cogitation from the MC, and let us try to ascertain for ourselves what’s happening in his head.  Why tell us?  What’s the point in that?  So that we can see 2+2=4 (the full equation, as four is given in this story)? 

I don’t even know with stories like this.  What a waste of time. Like the fucking jacket and the fucking wedding and the fucking Bovril and the everything. Yes. That’s what’s wrong. The everything.

Also, there’s a short story from the 80s titled “Fireworks”. It’s written by Richard Ford and in the collection Rock Springs. It does this weird thing for a short story, and I know you may not be familiar, but it does this weird thing where it’s actually FUCKING SPECTACULAR. I know, I know. Not your normal jam. But go have a read. I think you’ll enjoy.

Speaking of a waste of time, my van is in the shop and it’s caused me a lot of inner turmoil about what the point of this journey that I am on is.  Why wander?  Why not stay somewhere?  Why choose these life adventures vs just taking a fucking break for a minute? Why do my guts hurt if it’s not my liver (I got checked, big guy)? If it’s not that, then anxiety. Why all this anxiety?

And I don’t know. 

Actually, if I’m honest, I don’t really have the agonizing feeling that I typically have so this letter is devoid of any real passion.  Right now I feel fat, and I know I have a constipated shit in there that’s tearing up my bowels.  And I should drink more water.  And find something to do with my life.  But, meh. 

So, I guess that’s it.  This story didn’t elicit much of an emotional response.  My life doesn’t either right now.  I miss my kids.  Every day.  That’s about the one thing I’m sure of. The rest just keeps feeling further and further away, like I’m just getting further from shore on a unicorn pool toy, patching leaks constantly, hoping for the best. Yay.

Oh. I also finally got a new computer. Been about a decade. So, here’s to this laptop and these letters lasting ten more years.

Alright, dirtbags.  I’ll see you next week.

Nick

P.S. Just learned about this art exhibit called “Can’t Help Myself”, in which a robot arm has to keep scraping hydraulic fluid back as it spills out of itself, and if the robot slows down then the fluid will leak out more and more, so it’s desperately trying to save itself by getting fluid back inside itself. And I say all that in present tense but, in fact, the robot has died because he could not keep up and bled out. Like we all will. Fuck me sideways.