Today I found a dead snake under the porch. It was so dry and for a while I wondered if thirst could transcend that unfathomable barrier of mortality. So I buried it and poured a bucket of water over the fresh soil. I felt merciful or compassionate in some poetic sense, but later I decided that all I'd really left behind was a wet dead animal, buried in the ground.
Today I sent a letter to my grandmother. I'm twenty-one years old, she's eighty-something; I'd never done this before. The letter simply said, "Grandma, please don't die too soon. I have too many questions."
She died that afternoon.
A week later, I received a letter saying, "Sorry to disappoint you, but that's life."
Today I read a book I thought I'd never read before. I was wrong though. I've been reading that Bible for years.
Today I saw the sun and the moon share the sky, and then I saw the Big Bomb fall from it.
A wall of black one hundred feet high and dark as a mouth raced outwards from the centre.
That black mouth ate everything on its way to me. I smiled.
There are three things you should know about my story:
1. I can't ever decide where to begin. If I could, I would write an entire book of disclaimers, endless forwards, an interminable stream of author's notes, each more sudden, more urgent than the last. The only reader who finds this more aggravating than you, is me.
2. My book is about that one, singular purpose of my thinking existence - that which consumes me. Women; a memoir of gratification, and spiraling, frantic introspection. These stories of addiction and weakness, and moral instability are often pathetic upon examination - I feel pathetic writing it too. Which leads me to my 3rd point:
3. I often find myself suddenly realizing that, while everything matters, nothing matters. I find it quite difficult to complain about anything at great length, or explore the pathology of my lifestyle with any serious effort, when that which was before considered to be pathological, is suddenly regarded as harmless, unimportant, or benign.
Is this book simply an ill constructed sob story, designed to validate my neurotic exploration of self pity to be passed off as epic tragedy worthy of reading?