Katerina Read online

  I got it.

  I’m sorry.

  Don’t be fucking sorry for me, Katerina.

  She smiles.

  That’s my line.

  If you say it to me, I can use it.

  She laughs, stands, leans over, kisses me on each cheek, lingering on each for a moment, steps away.

  Burn down the world, Writer Boy.

  She picks up her bag and walks away. I watch her go and clench my jaw and shake my head slightly, try not to cry.

  Pain.

  Rising.

  Enveloping.

  Overwhelming.

  As deep as anything inside me.

  I try not to cry.

  Los Angeles, 2017

  * * *

  In Paris it was pen on paper.

  London pen on paper.

  South Carolina pen on paper.

  Minnesota pen on paper.

  Six months in Chicago pen on paper, six months in Chicago laptop computer.

  A year in Los Angeles laptop computer, two years in Laurel Canyon desktop computer, three more in Venice desktop computer.

  Five years going back and forth between SoHo and Amagansett with a laptop computer.

  A year in Beaulieu-sur-Mer with a laptop.

  Five more years going back and forth between SoHo and Amagansett with a laptop computer.

  Five years Malibu laptop.

  Wherever I was, whatever I used, pen and paper or a machine and a screen, every session started the same way.

  The void.

  An empty space.

  A blank page.

  Every session started the same way, restlessness and confusion and insecurity and need and fear desire ambition faith doubt hope and despair, words and images rolling and spinning and dancing twisting flying, appearing and disappearing, words and images speaking to me, calling to me, screaming at me, taunting me and whispering to me and waiting for me, words and images inside my mind, inside my heart.

  There would be days with nothing, days where the translation from my mind and heart failed, days where I read what I wrote and I was embarrassed and ashamed, day after day after day of words without meaning, sense, or direction, words without weight, words without movement, words that couldn’t dance or sing, week after week, month after month, year after year, words that embarrassed me and ashamed me.

  Every day was the same. And despite the result, I still believed. I don’t know how or why or what kept me going, but I believed if I sat long enough and worked hard enough and put word after word after word after word after word I would learn, learn to translate, learn to decipher, learn to decode, learn how to get the words and images inside me rolling and spinning and dancing and twisting and flying, appearing and disappearing, onto paper, or onto the screen.

  I’d write read edit ashamed and embarrassed throw it away or delete it. I never finished anything 10 pages 20 pages 35 pages 110 pages 235 pages throw it away or delete it but I still believed yes I still believed I still yes I still.

  Believed. Because sometimes. A sentence or a paragraph or a page or two. Sang or danced or demolished or delighted. Sometimes what was in my head and my heart appeared on the page or the screen. Like fucking magic. Some kind of sorcery. As if someone else held the pen or typed the keys. It sang or danced or demolished or delighted.

  So I kept.

  Kept.

  Kept.

  Reading.

  Looking at art.

  Living my crazy life.

  Chasing my crazy dream.

  I worked shitty jobs at night and wrote when I got home at dawn I fell asleep at noon I woke up at six went back to work.

  Simple.

  Focused.

  Monastic.

  Happy.

  I wrote a movie because I believed it was easier than writing a book fewer words a set structure it was commerce not art. I sold the movie and I didn’t have to work shitty jobs anymore.

  I wrote more and took jobs writing movies.

  I read.

  I looked at art.

  Why is a toilet on a wall art? Why did Pollock paint the way he did and why did it matter? Why is a soup can on a wall important? What are Fauvism Cubism Futurism Surrealism Dada. How did Abstract Expressionism change the world. What are Existentialism Pop Art Superrealism Photorealism Neo-Expressionism Postmodernism and why should I give a fuck because I did. I learned art is about doing what had never been done before, challenging paradigms, moving them, defying them, destroying them. If there is a rule break it, if you are taught to do one thing do something else, if someone tells you something is wrong it is probably right.

  And so instead of trying to write the right way, I started writing the wrong way. Grammar how I felt like using it punctuation how I felt like using it words in whatever way I pleased putting them on the page

  However

  I

  Fucking

  Pleased.

  I had never lived my life according to rules or expectations. Why should I write according to them.

  Fuck

  Them

  All.

  An obvious lesson. One I should have known. One I followed absolutely as soon as I learned it. Fuck them all. And as soon as I did, the words and images rolling spinning dancing twisting flying, appearing and disappearing, the words and images speaking to me calling to me screaming at me taunting me whispering to me waiting for me the words started appearing on the screen appearing.

  It took a decade. Ten years alone in a room with my heart and mind, my insecurity and my confidence, my doubt and my faith. Ten years dreaming ten years with a pen and my two fingers typing because I never learned to do it properly ten years of words sentences paragraphs pages chapters books entire fucking books inside of me.

  I wrote the first forty pages of my first book in two days. I smoked four packs of cigarettes and drank a couple gallons of coffee. I listened to old metal, punk, early rap, love songs from the eighties, disco. I sang as I worked I got up and danced as I worked I allowed myself to be demolished as I worked I was delighted as I worked. And when I read the pages, for the first time I wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed. I wasn’t throwing them out, I wasn’t pushing delete.

  It was right.

  For me.

  From my heart and from my head.

  Right.

  Fuck them all, fuck them all, fuck them all.

  For me.

  And so I went, computer, two fingers, cigarettes and coffee, music and myself. I stopped doing everything else and ten twelve fourteen sixteen hours a day, day after day after day, I sang and danced and demolished and delighted, day after day after day I stared myself down and dared myself to keep going, day after day after day after day I bared my motherfucking soul laid it down raw and unfiltered and without compromise or apology, day after day after day after day. I didn’t give a fuck about anything except the next word the next sentence did it look right sound right read right feel right, I didn’t give a fuck about genre or classification, I didn’t give a fuck about fact or fiction, I didn’t give a fuck how it would be read or received it was words on a page it was a story being told it was the clearest purest most direct statement of expression I could make all that mattered was the next word, the next sentence, was it right, was it fucking right.

  I was never happier. More serene and content. More satisfied and complete. Alone at the machine. Hour after hour day after day week after week month after month. I had words and music, coffee and cigarettes. My heart and my mind and my soul laid bare. Every morning as I fell asleep I imagined burning the motherfucking world down. Lighting some punk kid up the way books lit me up. Turning on the bulb in their soul that had been turned on in mine. Dividing confronting forcing people to have an opinion, to take a position, to love or hate, to cherish or burn, to revere or to ban. Every afternoon I woke up and went back at it.

  Word after

  Word

  After

  Word

  After

  Word.

  Th
e void.

  The empty space.

  The blank page.

  Filled.

  Singing dancing demolished delighted.

  Filled.

  One book two books three books four. Over ten years. One two three four. I went to the desk and I sat down with the machine and I confronted the void I confronted the empty I confronted the blank I confronted myself and my fear and my insecurity and my doubt I confronted them all and I fucking vanquished them. It wasn’t easy and often not fun, it was always work and labor and time and focus and intensity, but day after day month after month year after year I sat down and stared at the void blank page empty screen and I turned on some music and I drank some coffee and I smoked some cigarettes and I fucking went at it as hard and as true and as right as I could without a care for anything but the next word, sentence, paragraph. I didn’t give a fuck who published or when or what critics would say or how many copies I’d sell all that mattered was the void blank page empty screen and words with power and love and pain and loss and beauty and horror and sex and drugs and truth as I saw it and I felt it and I knew it, all that mattered was at the end of the day the void blank empty screen was filled with words, my words, words from my heart and mind, my words singing dancing demolishing delighting vanquishing.

  And

  The

  World

  Burned.

  It fucking burned.

  One book two books three books four. Hatred and love, bannings and burnings and lawsuits, headlines and talk shows and readings with thousands of people, book tours around the globe enraged journalists and devoted fans terrified editors and canceled contracts best-seller lists and movie deals the world it fucking burned. It was magnificent and terrifying and surreal and thrilling and terrible and heartbreaking and inspiring and exhausting. I gave it everything and it took everything, all of my dreams came true, and at the end I was in a hotel alone in the middle of the night somewhere in Europe when you’re in a different city every day you forget where you are, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling and streams of moonlight were dancing across the bed and I started to cry, I started to cry and I couldn’t stop, an hour, two, three I cried and I felt lost and scared and full of doubt and insecurity and whatever I had, whatever had driven me and carried me and forced me to do what I did, whatever was in my heart and my mind that allowed me and granted me the gift to do what I did and fill that motherfucking void was gone, it was gone, it was fucking gone. I cried all night. I finished my tour and I came home and I hugged my wife and I kissed my children and I went to bed for a day or two wondering if I would wake up the same empty and gone and I did, I woke up and I was empty and gone.

  Empty and gone.

  Empty and gone.

  So I did other things.

  Took meetings.

  Smiled.

  Shook hands.

  Wrote for money.

  Things that didn’t require what I had lost.

  Empty and gone.

  Things that didn’t require my heart and mind.

  Empty and gone.

  I engaged in the most American of activities, capitalism and commerce.

  Someone asked me if I had sold my soul, I laughed and told them I didn’t have a fucking soul to sell.

  One job two jobs three jobs forty.

  Capitalism and commerce.

  Empty and gone.

  My dreams had all come true.

  And I had given them everything I was and everything I had and everything I could be, everything.

  And I was empty.

  Gone.

  And what I didn’t realize.

  Was that when your dreams come true.

  You have to dream new.

  You have to dream new dreams new.

  You have to dream new dreams new and you have to wake up every morning and make them come true you have to dream new dreams new.

  Burn the fucking world down, Writer Boy.

  Do it.

  Let’s see if you still can.

  You have to dream new dreams new.

  Or you die.

  You have to dream new dreams or you fucking die.

  So here I sit.

  In my little barn, or cottage, or studio, whatever you want to call it, on the back of our property, away from the house, away from the noise, away from people, away from the world.

  The void

  A blank page

  An empty screen

  In front of me.

  Burn it down.

  Again.

  Motherfucker.

  Burn it down again.

  Because you can.

  Because you want to burn it.

  Because you have to burn it.

  You fucking have to or you will put a bullet in your fucking brain.

  Burn it down.

  Again.

  Writer Boy.

  Find whatever you lost your heart and mind, your passion and desire, your ambition and drive find the part of you that doesn’t give a fuck about anything but words one after another after another words find it you motherfucker.

  Void

  Blank

  Empty

  Burn.

  Paris, 1992

  * * *

  Because the old French hate me, I have taken to going to the boulangerie every morning, or every afternoon, depending on when I wake up, in my boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of Louis’s slippers, which are bright pink and covered in some kind of bright pink fur. When I order, I speak in an idiotic and very exaggerated French accent Je voudrais une baguette, s’il vous plait. And because the French, or at least these French, believe in their Liberté, Equalité, Fraternité bullshit, they continue to serve me, but aside from passing me my goods and taking my money, they do not acknowledge me in any other way. I have decided that these particular French can go fuck themselves, even though I like, and will continue to eat, their bread and other yeasty, wheaty, floury delights.

  * * *

  I try to instill some discipline into my life, make some rules.

  No drinking before 3 p.m., unless the shakes are so bad I can’t hold my pen, which is often.

  Write for at least four hours a day.

  Read for two hours a day.

  Eat something more substantial than bread, or Maison de Gyros sandwiches, maybe even some vegetables, just make sure whatever it is doesn’t cost too much.

  Come home before blackout starts, sleep in my own bed, unless someone I like invites me to sleep in their bed, but try to be aware of falling asleep.

  No cocaine.

  Try to stay in at least two nights a week.

  Speak French all the time, even when I feel like a fool and am not completely sure what I’m saying or I don’t know proper words, tense, or grammar. Only use English if I’m with people who don’t speak French.

  Get a beret.

  Wear the beret.

  Don’t be afraid of the beret.

  Do some laundry, dirty clothes that smell bad aren’t cool.

  Smoke fewer cigarettes.

  Push-ups and sit-ups three days a week.

  Write some letters to friends back home.

  Call Mom and Dad.

  * * *

  Paris is Paris again still some tourists but not many. Americans are mostly gone, back home planning new wars, shooting each other, and working on their trucks. I start to wander again. It’s still warm in September the French sky an endless blue, the Seine heavy and serene and eternal, the nights long and bright with a high moon, the streets full, cafés crowded, museums empty, I wander.

  *

  Sèvres–Babylone 10 to Odéon 4 to Réaumur–Sébastopol 3 to Père Lachaise the Métro is old and cute and quaint and slow and loud and crowded. The French always claim it’s the best public transportation system in the world, it might be the oldest and the original but it’s like your grandpa’s old car that he loves and will never give up that old shitty broken-down noisy smelly car that desperately needs to be either fixed or taken to the mo
therfucking junkyard. Seeing sculptures in underground alcoves is cool and fancy mosaics are cool and weird witchy old-school entrance signs are cool, but I really just want to get from one place to the next without motherfuckers going on strike. I have a book with me Our Lady of the Flowers by Genet and a notebook and a pen with me I don’t look up while the trains move I read and get lost in the words I read and get lost until.

  I arrive get out walk toward a massive stone wall and a massive stone gate both gray and worn pocked with weather and age and the weight of history and sorrow, these are not the smooth shining polished surfaces of a palace or an opera house they are the barrier between the living and the dead. Behind them lie a million bodies in the ground and two to three million sets of bones in marble and limestone ossuaries, there are as many dead as there are alive in Paris, as many dead as alive. I walk under the gate say a prayer for all of them even though I don’t believe in God or prayer I pay my respects to the rich and the poor and the famous and the unknown, those who died surrounded and those who died alone, I pay my respects to all of them respect to the dead. I buy a map from a man selling them his eyes are shifty and scared he may be worried about police may be worried about something or someone else there a million under the ground and two to three more interred, the map shows me where all of the notable and notorious are spending their eternities.

  I walk and look and breathe carefully there may be spirits in the air, I have more than enough torment and distress inside of me already. I find Molière first my old friend the writer of Le Misanthrope and Tartuffe I thank him for his words and apologize for mine. I find Edith Piaf whose songs I hear in every French bar café restaurant and taxi I hear them played by buskers on the streets and I hear them in fucking elevators the first 700 times they were amazing now they make me want to tear out my toenails, I don’t tell her that when I look at her tomb I smile and sing a few lines from La Vie en Rose, Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose (look it up if you don’t speak French motherfuckers, because now I do!). I see Chopin I don’t know his tunes but I know he’s fancy and made happy cheery delightful tunes I go to Proust I tell him his books are lyrical and beautiful but boring as fuck and way way way too long. I say hi to Balzac his bones are here his soul is at Musée Rodin, I kiss the wall of Oscar Wilde’s Egyptian tomb thank him for paving the way for all of the insane drunk sex-addicted fuck-ups of the world to dream of being writers. I find Géricault who made one magnificent painting and has one magnificent tomb a corny bronze version of the painting on the front of it. I find Abelard and Heloise and I wonder, I find Victor Noir kiss his lips I wonder. I find Richard Wright and kneel in front of him and I apologize for the nation that drove him out and I thank him for being a better writer than I will ever be, I start looking for Jim Morrison and I find him long before I find him. Yeah, Jim Morrison. Famous for his long sultry black locks and his sultry belly button and his sultry voice and his insatiable appetites for booze drugs women and his mediocre songs and terrible poetry and his infantile temper tantrums. Yeah, Jim Morrison, died in a bathtub and buried here. As you approach his grave there is graffiti everywhere, marker scrawled on surrounding tombs, lyrics from his mediocre songs, excerpts from his terrible poetry. As I see and walk toward I also hear a kid playing guitar and singing, he’s a young American (go the fuck home) with long hair in a black T-shirt his voice is not sultry though he is trying really fucking hard. When I see the grave I see flowers and beer cans and whiskey and wine bottles, needles empty packs of cigarettes records cassette tapes more flowers piled on top of the stone spread everywhere surrounding. There are seven or eight people all young longhairs, male and female, drinking smoking staring at the grave one of the girls has tears on her cheeks the others all look sad I can still hear the dude singing he still sucks. I look at one of the dudes, speak.