May 22nd, 2023 - Long Island

Dear TNY,

This Monday is an unusual one, as far as my new Hawaii life goes, and it started with “Long Island”. 

Well, that’s not entirely true, the start part.  It started with packing up my ladyfriend’s belongings at my house and driving them down the street to hers. The boys are coming out for the summer so the decision was made to sanitize the house of a relationship (the boys know I’m in one, FYI). For a few reasons. Some of them are actually quite logical. But the one that strikes me as the most realistic is that it will be easier to break up while they are here if the items are gone. I did discuss this with her as a reason. We both agreed that it might be. But it’s not the main one.

Anyway, I’ve begun a series of steps that will carry me to Seattle, to good ol’ anxiety-inducing Chuck, and then to Fruita such that I may touch my children’s faces again and hear their laughs and watch their floppy-ass hair run wild (and then bring them back here).  Yes folks, we are on the cusp of Summer.  Likely my last with my oldest, because he’s long in the tooth for these stupid fucking adventures that give me so much life. He’ll be his own man soon, though, and have to figure his own adult shit out. And that’s fascinating.

I was in a conversation with my ladyfriend about how the next few days are going to go.  And weirdly I cried while talking about it.  Because, well, it’s fucking hard. It’s hard completely on its own (e.g. I haven’t seen my kids in five months and I have oceans of guilt about them and my life and my ex’s life and it’s a town I hate and there’s a pyramid of mental anguish that seems to get larger instead of smaller, and there’s the loss of control over my life, etc (truth be told: it’s probably just a mental disorder which skews my perception, so that’s great)).  And not only is it hard, it’s harder because it’s always alone.  Will be alone this time, too. 

***There was a paragraph here in which I was seriously angry at everyone for not coming to Fruita (i.e. my life) and there was a wheelbarrow of self-pity. I deleted it. The truth is that regardless of whose fault it is or what life situations dictate or relationship status or any of that stuff, I think we can all agree that me having to go back and forth to do this Fruita thing for 10 years and not one single person has gone with me, we can agree that that must be fucking hard.***

And this isn’t a cry for help, calling for a savior or anything like that. I don’t want to be saved. I don’t need anyone to come. I spoke my truth. Will keep speaking it. So I’m going to do it alone. This is the road I know. I’ve run it so many times. I know every bump and dip and curve in my bones. This is casual.

***There was a paragraph here from an essay about my travels to and from Fruita and then a paragraph of more vitriol and psycho theories on my own rotty totty brain. Deleted that too.***

***Deleted another paragraph of self-pity here.***

The truth is this: My ladyfriend called a little bit ago. And she asked what was wrong. Because I’m pretty see-through, I know that. And I said I was sad. And then while I was mentally gathering a reason for why I was sad, the knee-jerk words that came out of my mouth were: I just want to go home.

I thought maybe I was home. If you had asked me in late January, I would have told you I was going home.

But, I don’t know where it is yet. Or who it is. Or what it is. Or if it is.

I had a really good time while I was pretending, though. That I was better. Maybe home. But, here we are. Still unmoored I guess.

***Deleted a paragraph here where everything was everyone’s fault. Not possible. Dumb.***

Jesus.  Maybe I should talk about the story.

I don’t hate it.  In the first paragraph, I thought the author really liked the sound of her voice.  The descriptions were long and the tangents high.  But the writing was clean.  So it took a few paragraphs, but I figured a rhythm out with it and didn’t notice so much as the 6500 words went by.  So that’s good.  Also, I feel that some of my stories have these crazy details and tangents as well and if I’ve got beef with this piece then I have beef with myself. 

Also, I have beef with myself.

I enjoyed the coming-of-age aspect of the story.  I enjoyed the safecracking.  But the skull?  See, I think the deal is that this story doesn’t lead to a real hefty point.  It’s fun to watch, but like any of the Ant-Man movies, it doesn’t have any gravitas.  So I don’t give a shit about what the story is trying to say because the story doesn’t make me give a shit about it.  And that’s the job of the fucking story, right? 

So there it is.  We have a good voice that’s interesting to read and even the premise is interesting, but it doesn’t take me anywhere emotionally.  I will admit, as we all must, that the emotional journey is the hardest to write and edit.  So maybe I should let this story of the hook, right?

***Deleted a paragraph about disappointment. Will settle for: Everyone is disappointing some of the time, especially myself.***

Maybe I’m just moody right now.  Or maybe I’m insane.  Maybe I’m just fucking busted.  Anyway, next week I don’t know where I’ll be writing to you from.  But it will be mainland.  Likely in the van.  After crying a lot.

Until next time, peeps.

Nick