Here I am here. How I have arrived in this place at this moment on this day with this feeling history future problems life this horrible fucked-up good-for-nothing waste of a life how. Fifteen minutes ago I was holding a lifelong Criminal and cocaine Addict who spent his childhood with his Father’s dick in his mouth as he cried because he was scared to go back into the World. I ate my lunch with some kind of menacing middle-aged movie-star Look-alike and a three-strike Fugitive and a Steel Worker with torn-out hair plugs and a one-hundred-ten-pound Ghost who used to be the Champion of the World. I was given a coloring book and told it would help make me better. I watched some Judge’s stupid fucking video and I was told it would help make me better. I got sick, just like I do every other fucking day, and I am not getting better. I am twenty-three years old and I’ve been an Alcoholic for a decade and a drug Addict and Criminal for almost as long and I’m wanted in three states and I’m in a Hospital in the middle of Minnesota and I want to drink and I want to do some drugs and I can’t control myself. I’m twenty-three.
I breathe and I shake and I can feel it coming and the rage and need and confusion regret horror shame and hatred Fury the Fury and I can’t stop the come. Let it motherfucking come. The Fury has come.
I see a tree and I go after it. Screaming punching kicking clawing tearing ripping dragging pulling wrecking punching screaming punching screaming punching screaming. It is a small tree, a small Pine Tree, small enough that I can destroy it, and I rip the branches from its trunk and I tear them to pieces one by one I rip them and I tear them and I throw them to the ground and I stomp them stomp them and when there are no more branches I hear a voice and I attach the trunk and it’s thin and I break it in half and I hear a voice and I ignore it and I throw the broken trunk on top of the branches and one half of it is still on the ground I hear a voice and I want it out of the fucking ground and I grab it and pull pull pull and it doesn’t budge not an inch I hear a voice and I ignore it and I pull scream pull and it doesn’t budge this fucking tree I want to destroy it and I let go of it and there is a voice I ignore I start kicking kicking kicking and the voice says stop stop stop stop. Stop.
From A Million Little Pieces
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11 comments:
Why???????
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“It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life.
Now I know that I am the sphere, and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.”
From Gibran's Sand and Foam
Somehow, your long quotation reminded me of the one above, can this person of “a million little pieces” find her/himself and become the sphere instead of the fragments like the one of “sand and foam”? Or is it a myth, to ever find yourself, fight and conquer your demons, put your fragmented self together and get over the past?
Those writers make me think of things, I DON’T LIKE IT :)
yeh i dont think you need more garbage in your mind :}
Mcarabian, I think because its too damn depressing? sa7 wallah la2?
9oot, mcarabian (first timer, no? then welcome), and a3sab. I stopped 'coz the book told me to :) "the voice says stop stop stop stop. Stop." It is depressing but I'm not one to stop over that. It was late. I had to go to sleep :)
zorath. I know. Read the book if you get a chance. You'd be amazed at what triggered this guy's addiction.
metsy. welcome chez my blog. finding oneself is too spiritual and transcendent for my taste (and apparently for the writer's taste in this book, he just wants to live). so metsy and yaob. can you guys be more predictable? :)
About 40 pages left so I'm off to finish it.
Many friends recommended this book to me. I think I'm getting it tomorrow
Cheers
:(
I know how you feel, this near-the-end-of-the-book syndrome always gets me whenever i'm trying to enjoy a book. I pretend that the book is good, or sometimes the book is actually good but the author just fucks up towards the end and I just pretend that it doesnt matter. I end the book feeling sorry for the writer - and regretting the money I paid. Ever read "The Lovely Bones" ? The author did a great job in the first two thirds of the book, royally fucked up towards the end. She then published the momoir of her own rape story. Which is sick, because she already wrote about rape in "The Lovely Bones" but I guess she just likes to get the attention of people "Hello, i've been raped and i'm still alive" urgh.. I mean, you already feel sorry and bad for the characters in the fictional book, you don't have to know that this person truly exists, it just makes you -or me- feel shittier than shit. That's why I preffer reading fiction rather than memoirs written by stupid people who think they're God's second cousins and have great tales to tell, great lessons to teach human beings. Malika Oufkir, James Frey, Alice Sebold, Augusten Burroughs, all pathetic people who live in shit and want you to share their shit with them. They're like Paris Hilton, who used the porn stuff her boyfriend shot for her to get fame. If you need to feel a little sad, look around you and i'm sure you'll find enough depression to make your tears run. You don't actually have to pay to get depressed. Read David Sedaris instead.. at least he puts the mieserable evens of his life in a funny way -despite the fact that he's gay.
I didn"t try to be "unpredictable" :) I would worry for you if you didn"t know who metsy is :)
Are you ever going to read a play for a change?
I suggest Eve Ensler's "Necessary Targets" ( I haven't figured out how to itelicize or underline when I type here, so don't get all didactic with me:) If you haven't read it yet, it is great and a very fast read..put behind the dying art of the novel and read the mother of all arts :DRAMA
nychick. you won't regret it.
kasmawy. why? and welcome here.
anon. i agree with you that this victim mentality is often over-praised in works of literature. a friend of mine reading the book commented that it seems unfair that the life of a recovering alcoholic is made, in such books, to appear more important and worthy of being cheered and saluted than our lives. do i have to become an addict for my life to be book-material.
but with that said, i still see the book, as a work of literature, to be worthy of being read. the style is not pretentious and the honesty of james frey is felt in his writing.
sedaris is wonderful. a totally different type of work of course. but his "Me Talk Pretty One Day" was very enjoyable to read.
mysterious metsy. novels never die out. ensler is amazing. i was sold immediately upon reading/watching her vagina monologues
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