Sept the Twenty-First
A dark and stormy day, how lovely. Folks are at work, lady’s at work, friends are at work… I’m not at work.
I could be, though. I have a novel to write, after all, but at the same time I have a bunch of cuts in my feet, so… I don’ow. I feel like as long as I have to crawl around on my hands and knees just to go to the bathroom, I probably shouldn’t bother myself with writing. Well, novelwriting. I’m writing plenty right here and now, but… ugh.
Well, at least the sound of the rain on my roof is nice. At least there’s that.
… … …
I’m having one of those days where I think a whole lot about nothing at all. I feel very aware, Journal, my mind feels incredibly active, but yet not a single thought seems to be crossing through. It’s like… it’s like I’m just kind’a here. Nothing going on, nothing going down. Just. Kind’a. Here. I wonder if this is how Old Jack feels, but like, all the time. If the guy even feels. They probably have him hopped up on so many medications that he’s constantly numb. Probably lives in an omnipresent haze, like me when I was smoking all the time except he doesn’t even get to smoke. Poor bastard. I’d roll him a joint if I could, have a powwow with him… so long as he didn’t try to rape me, at least, although I’m not go’n’a lie, I highly doubt he was consciously trying to rape my front door or my car or Tori’s car, or even Tori. First time I saw the girl I could hardly keep it together, for Christ’s sake, which was probably because I was isolating myself and compounding that isolation with a constant high, but…
Side note: I’m not allowed to shower because there are bleeding holes in my feet. That shit sucks.
So yeah, I spent a lot of time alone and I saw Tori and the mere sight of her made me randy, but I was of (at least partially) stable mind. Imagine the thoughts that went through Old Jack’s mind when he saw her, good god. You wan’a talk about depravity, look at that fuckin’ guy. I shudder at the thought, truly.
But yet he was still able to escape the clutches of not just one, but both of the group homes on my street, multiple times. I wonder how he did it, like, how he really did it. I bet it would make a killer novel, although it’d probably be nearly impossible to write. To create (or in this case, follow) a ‘man who has so little sanity left in him one would have to be insane themselves, wouldn’t they? I mean, reality inspires fiction – there’s nowhere else it could come from, I don’t think, unless there’s some kind of unReality that no human is presently aware of – so to create a character and a story around him, one would have to, in some form, embody that character. Right?
Maybe not, actually. I mean, as interesting of a human being Stephen King is, he’s not a gunslinger. Like, he’s a gunslinger, but he’s not a literal gunslinger, he doesn’t walk into a town just to shoot the population dead a few days later… or was it weeks? Eh, not important – my point is that he created the character of Roland Deschain, and Jake, and Eddie, and Susannah, and even Oy and all the villains and the side characters and everybody – he created them all so perfectly – but he’s just a ‘man. He created the man in black, he created the Crimson King, but he is not pure evil. He’s got a streak of it in him for sure, reading what I read of Pet Sematary told me that beyond any reasonable doubt, but then again, I think we all do.
So maybe we all have a streak of Old Jack inside of us too. To walk that ambiguous line between genius and insanity one must know where he walks, he must be at least a little bit familiar with (or at least aware of) the bottomless depths of madness that lurk below, of the limitless heights of brilliance that float above.
Huh, that gives me an interesting thought. Maybe there is no line between genius and insanity. Maybe… because, like, to say there’s a fine line between them puts them on the same level, as if they were the same thing, and they’re not. They’re clearly not, the only thing they have in common is that they both exist within the human mind as concepts. Well, maybe they’re a little more than concepts, but like… maybe it’s like… maybe it’s like… they’re not the same thing. Right? That much is clear, genius and insanity are not the same thing, they might be composed of the same stuff (that stuff being… what? Intention?) but they are not the same thing. Insanity is easy. Just look at Old Jack, he’s clearly capable of both. I know that seems stupid to say, but the dude’s capable of escaping mental health institutions on a serial basis; not only does he outsmart the orderlies and their medicines and all the weapons they have against him, but he does it again and again. He starts out in that gray space – just like we all do, and don’t some of us try our very best to stay in that gray space? Don’t all too many humans, out of fear and nothing else, spend their lives avoiding dipping out of that narrow little mental safe zone that everybody considers to be “normal” because so few dare to venture out of it? I think so, Journal, I’m really starting to think so – and he climbs the mountain of brilliance just high enough to escape the group homes, just high enough to see the view of all that which lies below him, and then he jumps. Then he plummets into madness and starts slamming his crotch into everything he can, regardless of whether it moves or not, and oh shit, it’s just like the vices spectrum, drugs versus sex, spirituality versus carnal desires!! Insanity is pursuing sex at all costs and genius is pursuing a high!
Well, not literally, but like. I know what I mean.
It’s easy to be insane, I think that’s what I’m really getting at here. It’s hard work to keep yourself planted in that little gray space, and it’s even harder work to ascend into brilliance; that’s why so many folks refuse to do it. At the same time, though, there are a lot of folks who don’t want to be stuck in that gray space, folks who find the gray to be distasteful and awful and just all around boring, so they want to escape, and there are only two ways to get out: climb the mountain, or jump into the abyss. And considering how there are less geniuses out there than there are insane folks, I think one route is definitely easier than the other.
I guess what I’m really trying to say is that most folks are lazy, they don’t like to do things that are hard to do. Like writing a novel, for example. Lol. I’m going to start it soon, though. Just as soon as I can piss standing up again. It’ll be hard for sure – writing the novel, not pissing – but I like to think the things which are hard to do are the things most worth doing.
Huh. I guess I wasn’t thinking about nothing after all. If my hand wasn’t cramping up so bad I’d keep going, but it is so I won’t. Here feels like a good place to stop, anyway. So here’s to you, Old Jack. Thanks for jumping off the cliff into insanity. You showed me exactly where I don’t want to go with my life, you proved once and for all that the easy way out ain’t the way worth taking.
And for that, I say thankya.
… … …
Say thankya, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Long days and pleasant nights~
Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
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If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~