Things are going well. I’m in a good mood—quite good. It’s nice, sure is. I’m happy, and so is Monica, even Bennington has found peace I assume. Work is good: I’m preparing my final submission of Always a Stone, my long-awaited debut novel, and I’ve made good progress. I feel like I can relax for the first time in years. It’s one of those rare days when you feel totally at ease, comfortable, and satisfied: no anxieties, no crises, no minor worries or paranoia. Just calm… just calm… sometimes sleep will not come, but today I’m rested, I’m willful, and I’m ready.
I don’t care about the vile attacks on my and my wife’s character published here by my bas-- I mean cousin Bennington. They’re lies, and people didn’t believe them. They did better. The rest of you should be better. Try it, you might like it. Take a break from yelling at me on Twitter demanding to know if Monica and I are “still together” (we’re married, do you think either of us would live in sin?), demanding to know if Bennington is right, demanding to know where my novel is. Well! I’m happy to announce that Random House will be publishing Always a Stone next spring. Oh books, they take so long to get right… but when it’s right, it’s nice. You love to see it, as they say. Winky face.
I took a walk yesterday thinking about the last 10 years and how we should all be looking forward to the new Roaring 20s, a much more optimistic and exciting decade. I don’t think things are going to get worse, quite the contrary—for one thing, I’ll have a book out. And who knows, maybe Monica will run for president, or become Marianne Williamson’s cabinet secretary (she would never accept a vice president nomination, she’s too proud). You’ll be seeing a lot more of her, less of me in the years to come. No I’m not sick, no I’m not going away, but what I do, I do best in solitude. There’s only so much living a bird can do. Now are the years of my letters, my retirement phase, when I paint my masterpiece.
On my walk, I spied a babbling brook. I imbibed from it. I spoke to frogs, toads, spiders, and squirrels. I wanted to hear about their lives, their struggles, their goals. I wanted to do it for the culture. Frogs and toads said they needed more clean water to survive; spiders needed more mice and fewer cats; and the squirrels? Christ, the most annoying animal on this earth. They love their tails more than anything else, and even in my rare magnanimous mood, I found them completely insufferable. Bitching about this and that, not enough nuts, a rise in poaching and coonskin caps (I’m not scared of raccoons but prefer not to accompany them in physical space. There have been tussles before, discreet executions and burials. They’re closer to dinosaur than dog). Squirrels never listen to you anyway, they just want to hear themselves talk.
I should stop, I’m getting sour. I’m taking this time before the end of the decade, and the end of the day, to look back and see what I got right, and what I got wrong. There’s plenty to do, but the future looks bright to me up here. The weather’s still just fine, sure is, and I don’t suspect that’ll change even if the TV men and Twitter meteorologists scream doom. I’m in my ark floating on cloud nine. Next stop? Bliss and oblivion.
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