It’s all good, it’s all new . . .

I got an actual job over this way, which is very exciting. I’ve spent the last two months just writing, putting in the time literally six days a week, and in the process I’ve generated an insane number of words. In my decaffeinated stupor, words come easy. But it’s hard to say if they’re the right ones. Anyway. It’s difficult to justify the writer’s life when you’re not necessarily doing it for the promise of incoming money. And when you’re flat broke, things can get wretched and lonely fast. So I worked this weekend, in my new job, and felt considerably more grown up and more emotionally stable than I have in the past while, basically ever since I got back to the United States from South American. I have the next two  days ahead of me, and the first drops are beginning to spill in the wide, vast, and nearly empty bucket that is my bank account..

I’m mildly considering the Bay Area for my future home . . . LA’s on the list, too, but I just don’t know about that place. First of all, I’d need a car. Same with Miami which I guess is number three. I suppose an honorary fourth would be any place outside of the United States. Costa Rica, Berlin, Barcelona, Rome, Malta, and so on. Pipe dreams, some might say . . . I’m trying to establish some sort of real career for myself, be it writing, be it writing-and (that’s like a coffee-and), and that’s hard to do when you’re not living in your home country. I could barely keep afloat when I was over in Peru - which was cool for the present but it does not take into account at all the future. And that’s where I’m trying to be.

Listened a Randy Newman album from 1974 on the way to work today . . . felt almost normal . . . god, I must have been walking around in a total swirl for the past several weeks . . . I get into such an alien, introverted, loserish state when I’m wrapped up in writing . . . it seems an awful way to live . . . why do I even want to go pro, if that’s what this life is like? I wonder what Pynchon is like as a father . . . or Vollman as a lover . . . William T. Vollman is probably frightening to sleep next to . . . he’s like a lizard . . .

I’m thinking Oakland, instead of San Francisco . . . San Francisco’s got the best girls - smart, big tits, glasses - but bad weather. I’m thinking Oakland’s cheaper, better weather, and hopefully they’ve got some girls over there, if not, I can come over the bridge.

California’s in such awful shape, I wonder why I even want to move there. But then, even in bad shape, it’s probably the best state we’ve got . . . it’s much better than the American South . . . which is where I am now . . .

It’s funny . . . I graduated from college ten years ago . . . in the fall of ‘99, I set out to drive cross-country to Santa Cruz. I had nothing but an ‘80 Volvo. No friends out there, no job. I wasn’t scared at all. I didn’t give a fuck. The week I got there, I got a job on a farm and found this funky-ass roommate who turned out to be one of the closest friends I’ve made in ten years. I wonder sometimes, did I have the luck around me then? Was it because I was young and open-hearted? Everything seemed to work out well for me then. The hippies called it “manifesting” . . . I would take ecstasy and go to an all-night dance party and, well, “manifest” a beautiful girl. I do think it had something to do with my age - it must have. I can take ecstasy and go to a club nowadays and I ain’t manifesting a thing. I’m really not. . .

Or maybe it was just luck. I had it rolling. Somehow I fell into producing porn when I was 23 years old. How was that even possible? The stars had to line up just right. I mean, certainly, I had the desire to do it - but then the actress in my first film got in touch with this guy Lew in Palo Alto who by chance knew Mike Horner in LA and then I meet Horner and he introduces me to Kelly Holland who tries to get me work with Max Hardcore and then eventually introduces me to a . . . well, who cares. Maybe it’s luck, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s just a couple of good breaks, and maybe I still have some breaks to come.

Life moves on, and it’s good that it does it. It keeps things interesting. . . What in hell was I doing ten years ago, on October 11th? If it was a Sunday? I have my journal from that fall somewhere . . . let’s see if I can find it, maybe . . .

I have this incredible stack of black notebooks. They all look identical. Here’s some first pages:

Monday, October 17th, 2005.

“I did it all for a reason. And that reason is long gone, belongs to another person.”

March 3rd, 2007

“In a coffeeshop called Grendel’s Coffee on NE 8th Ave and Burnside, in Portland, OR, at almost 1 PM. It’s not raining today, and the coffeeshop has a good vibe. I have a glass of water in front of me and a mug of coffee (”My Worst Day on the Golf Course Still Beats My Best Day at the Office”). My thumb hurts, most likely due to the beating it took over the last 4 days at Computer Technology Link, Inc, located in the Northwest Industrial District. My job there nets me $53 a day of take home pay . . . ”

August 15th, 2003

Murfreesboro, TN (Brad’s house)

“The home of the chain - Murfreesboro that is. Captain D’s Seafood, El Mexicano, Verizon Wireless Chick Fil-A, Dollar General, Sonic, Steak-and-Shake, Kroger Foods, Walgreen Drugs, They line the highways in an endless life-sucking monolithic skyline, dwarfing the humans, run by invisible robots.”

November 28th, 2003

“Today’s got a horrible feel to it. I feel ashamed of myself. I am making a vow never to ‘get rid’ of any pot that I might have by smoking it. It’s just so, so stupid. I felt like the most pathetic addict yesterday. I prove myself that I still have an active problem. I couldn’t say a word. All day. And I left MY GODDAMN PHONE in Santa Barbara”

9/8/04

“Porno is not tragic - it’s the people who are inside it who are tragic.

My God - two days ago, I was dropping acid onto my tongue. Lord God almighty. It’s so much . . . drier here. And so am I, so am I. It’s sad how it fades so fast. What do I have left besides a smattering of bizarre memories, a tobacco issue, and a tingling in my left hand?”

January 5th, 2005

“Silke

(323) 202-0606

Maybe I’ll move to Venice. I don’t think so but maybe it would work - reason why is it would be new . . . I don’t like Venice so that’s sort of dumb. It’s just near my therapist, that’s all.”

Okay, finally found it. Lessee . . . the best I can do is find 11/12/99.

“Last night was another one, they keep getting stranger. This weekend was a set unto itself. I took Ecstasy on Friday night and had a bit of a trip . . . yes, I did . . . it was emotional as usual. In a way it was not as intense but in this odd, long-lasting way it was different than all other trips that I’ve had. It is a strange thing, ecstasy, but I felt I made some breakthroughs in terms of opening my heart. The odd thing is that the breakthroughs didn’t come when I was really in the throes of rolling, but rather they were in the aftermath, in the next day even. The next day (I am skipping ahead in my story - I am not a good storyteller, never  have plot lines mapped out, plotted, but there’s no way to get better without DOIN’ it) I was a little kitty, I did hardly a thing but stay in my bedroom watch (so happily!) the end of Zelig and then Game 1 of the Lakers-Celtics series from 1987. What a beautiful game. That was my team, you’ll remember. Why does it make me so so happy to see James Worthy score 35 points? It is a thing of extreme beauty, basketball is - and that Lakers 87 team especially. The Celtics were amazing too - Bird completely awesome, though not the MVP that he’d been the previous three seasons. Magic. Kareem. Robert Parrish. And even Pat Riley and K.C. Jones, it was neat to see them in an earlier stage of their lives. The interesting thing is that I’ve seen that game before - in 1987. But never mind. I wrote the letter I’m going to send to the Weiss’s, and Woodwyn said “I love you” when she was getting off the phone and I said back “I love you, too.” And it felt so great to say that, it made me so happy I felt like crying, or sighing, or something . . . and right after she said that I called Jemini . . who is completely another story unto herself . . . what is it with women and me? God is dropping them into my life left and right, right and left . . . I’m being a good boy and not having sex with any of them. This not-fucking on the first date rule is a good policy, no question about it. But yes, I’ve been very lucky with women since I moved here - three women have approached me, that was the way that it happened . . . and all had something to do with dancing. Many, many of the women that I’ve been with in the last three years have had something to do with meeting on a dance floor. Mina, of course . . . Deborah . .  that girl from Prato, Guya . . . you could even say (excised) and still be accurate to the truth. God, I need to get better at my writing. I’m for shit right now. The only way to do it, though, I feel, is to write and write and get all that shit out of my system - the only way I’m going to shit out the shit, is going to put it down on paper . . . I’ve got a little bit of fear that the porno isn’t going to be well-written. Perhaps a comedy-mystery? I’d like to see some drawing in it (drawings by me, of course . . . in later films we can feature artists like K. Reid, A. Flesher). I’d also like to see some dancing . . . I can’t wait until I make my porno. That’s going to be so incredible. I’ve got to remember that this is totally going to be a the learning experience, this movie that we’re making with LuAnn and Aaron. It’s a gift from God, another one (I hope I don’t look back on this journal in ten years and think all these “gift from God” phrases were serious . . they ain’t . . . meant to be taken in the jocular . . . jugular . . vernacular.) Santa Cruz, too, a gift from God . . Jemini, too, also a gift from God . . I gotta take a picture of her before she leaves . . she’s here, y’see . . . just took a bath. I slept at her house last night . . . how magic . . she’s my first goddess. A goddess is  a term that must be defined, I suppose. A goddess is often dreadlocked - she is spiritual . . . more often than not she is a vegan . . if not a vegan, a vegetarian . . if not a vegetarian, a very conscious meat eater. She does not eat at Burger King, let’s say. A goddess shops at the Farmer’s Market, Whole Foods, etc. Goddesses are frequently tall, or at least they appear tall. They cast a certain aura of confidence and sensuality as they saunter through streets. Goddesses rarely smoke tobacco. If they do smoke tobacco, you will not find them smoking Marlboro Lights, or Newports. No. Rollies, or American Spirits, are more their style. Goddesses often do smoke, however, marijuana. Godesses love to dance. They have underarm hair and toned arms. . ”

My that became quite the excercise in embarrassment, transcribing that! Who cares. The beauty of youth. The stupidity of beauty. And so on and so on. What was private becomes public. What was public becomes pubic. It’s all good. It’s all new.