January 13th, 2025 - Prophecy
Dear TNY,
The first story of the new year is “Prophecy” and it’s fucking dumb.
What we have here is your typical “woke” TNY story. It’s about a different culture than American in a different place than America and publishing it because of that was more important than the narrative, quality of writing, transcendence, artistry, mastery of craft, and any other segment of writing that makes it Art. And to be clear, I don’t care where the story is from or what culture is in it. I don’t even like America, for chrissakes. The story just needs to be fucking excellent. This wasn’t.
Oh, my personal favorite line: …or flush a toilet to insure that it worked.
Now, I was careful. I went back and read his family’s vocation. Real estate. NOT insurance. So, insure?! This is The fucking New Yorker. Do you understand words? Any of them? It’s fucking ENSURE unless this cheesedick is providing insurance to, around, about, regarding, etc the toilet. Which he is not. He is verifying the function of it. Fucking dumbshits.
So it’s 2025 now. I never thought I’d live past 1997, by the way. Couldn’t imagine growing older than my brother. And I’m sitting here writing this and thinking, I don’t believe there has ever been a single person more responsible for dismantling a section of the literary artform than Ms. Treisman. For 21 years, ~ 50 stories a year, she has been the spearhead eroding the bedrock of short fiction. That’s over a thousand stories published. And if my data from the last seven years holds true, which is that about three stories a year are worth reading and only one is good, that’s just about 60 or so stories out of that thousand that were worth publication. And 20 of which were examples of how to write an excellent story. That’s the worst quality rating I’ve ever heard of. At any other job, one would be fired within the first year. But this? It’s a fucking career. An artform-ending career. Singlehandedly responsible for shitting the bed on Art. My God.
Speaking of God, I’ve been visited lately. I can see with my eyes closed now. But what I see is different from reality. I can see the seams where the energy behind this place is stitched together. Just this morning I saw through the walls and saw the edges of the box of energy I was in, the changes in plane were crisp, straight lines that fizzled with blue white-noise. And I’m getting electrical surges from within, as well. Massive waves of juice flowing throughout my body. It’s very intense, sometimes enough to lose my breath and/or have my eyesight dim. In Hawai’i last month I lost the ability to register what was coming in as data from one eye, my guy. I could still see, but for about an hour I didn’t know what the data was I was seeing. I could be asleep right now, though. I have learned to read in my dreams, which is supposed to be impossible. The reading material is amazing. Tomes and tomes of never-ending sentences that run out of the books and onto the floor and they lead you to different realms of wherever I’m going at night, some of which are fascinating. Also, I 3D draft in my dreams now as well, in 4k. It’s amazing. Hell, this could all be a dream right now. I don’t know.
The boys are gone. They had a close call at the airport in Denver because of a late plane and short layover, but they gave the script to the attendant and I had them moved up in the plane beforehand. They got home just fine. Another one in the books. I hope it was okay. I was so sad and so sick for most of it. But we ran into the ocean like big boys, as angry as it was. Ten footers breaking on the sand. We didn’t stand a chance. Everyone got waylaid. We laughed a lot. Like a lot a lot. And cried. And they are miracles. If the only reason I was made was to have the honor of making them and then watching them grow up, it’s worth it being here. They are astonishingly beautiful.
But that’s not the only reason I was made. She unblocked me two days ago. Still hasn’t said anything. But unblocked me nonetheless. That can mean many things. I’m crying when I think about it. Because what if it means I get to go home? Boy that would be lovely. I’ve been outside for a long time. I’m ready this time.
I miss you so much.
Anyway, I’m not well. As you can probably read. But, I’m here. I have the parts to start on the endgame of the jewelry box and I intended to do so in earnest tomorrow. And I came up with the final designs today. For the leatherwork and the fabric finishes. Only a few outstanding materials to buy now, but I know what I’m looking for and I know they exist.
Here’s to another year. Maybe we’ll see it through.
Nick
