Yes, I meant to spell addled mind above in the subtitle, but I’m in that state because I’m feeling hassled by the monstrous whore muse who afflicts me above all forces outside of the bewildered field of my tiny mind.
I have a sense that I will not see 2021. This is common for me in my life. It seems every few years I become obsessed with completing projects and lose all ability to imagine myself in the future.
As a writer, I have never experienced “writers block” thanks to my many muses, most of them men. Perhaps a third of my books were taken up on the suggestion of others, mostly men.
As I sense that my writing time is at an end—indeed, my health has rarely been better, so perhaps I am haunted by an idea that my time as a writer is coming to its end—my ego and discipline combine in a frantic drive to finish that which is undone and potentially doable within the artificial frame of this year.
American Spartacus is a huge 2-volume book I must devote 3 months to complete and I have the responsibility of travel writing and the urge to complete numerous fictions.
Yet the insanity of the world gathers and the great whore batts her eyelashes at my seduction-prone inquisitive half.
Of my female muses there stand two of gravity:
Lynn Lockhart, my editor, holds a great sway over my mind’s eye and is the only person who I have ever permitted to advise me against writing something. My ego waxes in her approval because she is a little sister figure and also smarter in many ways than I am. So, she has power over my creative process to an unusual degree.
But the greatest muse, the one that scolds, bullies, abuses, flirts with me, seduces me, fills me with yearning lust and alternately horrifies me with churning disgust, is the Great Whore who spawned me, the eternal iniquity I know derisively as She, the bitch called Civilization, the witch whose latest incarnation is known as Modernity.
As I raced back into Her churning bowels on the iron snake last month, fear grew with the passage of time and the reconquest of negative space. At a certain point, standing outside on the chilly train platform in Minneapolis, the Dread Minus, only disease to ever afflict mankind, was the point of discussion between a Bantu whiner and a sissy Caucasoid.
The Caucasoid mentioned that we are lucky to have been prepared by science-fiction movies and TV as to how to survive such danger.
The Bantu declared that only he was in danger, that the ivory masters had engineered this disease to annihilate his ebony brothers and sisters.
As I woke today, wondering if I might finish the last boxing manual I will ever write, so that I might finish The Filthy Few [my last full-length novel] next week, my host smiled and said, “You ought to turn on the TV and check out what kicked off in Minneapolis last night—it’s looking like a doozie—knee on the neck and he died in custody—eesh!”
And thusly another fawning whisper of the Old Whore’s raspy voice, cast through her increasingly makeup-caked face, assailed me with investigative fervor, sparked an I-told-you-so need to give heed.
And I say fuck it.
I will strive this next week of poolside bliss, ensconced in comfort, plugging my ears so as not to hear Her sibilant hiss.
Just die Bitch!
I have a novel to write.
PS: I will crack a beer and enjoy some mayhem footage with my host, but purely for entertainment purposes. Enjoy the shitshow without my commentary. And if you miss it, don’t worry—it’s coming to a city near you as the sun draws its uncaring shades.
