I still have another deadline, and I’m late working on the piece. It’s on Kerouac. So I’m just going to kind of let loose and speak to you in a way that I hope you’ll be able to hear my voice — free of pretension and fear. Tonight, I stepped outside of my apartment, and I walked down Redondo Avenue. The fog had settled on the streets, and the street lamps were buzzing in the moisture, glowing like vibrating mirrors. Here is what I thought about as I walked down the street. Am I going to meet my deadline? Can I survive as a writer? Will the dog in the glasses store think I am intruder? Have a lived a life worth living? Have I burned and raged as much as possible, demanding the night sing and the sun scorch the Earth? Have I been true to myself? Have I listened to the voices of others who are intruders? Have I listened to the voices filled with love?
The streets were like something pulled straight out of a Noir movie, and I felt, suddenly, like I was meant to be in this exact spot, in this exact time, in this exact world without a fear or a care or a penny. I can hear Long Beachers talking out their windows, eating dinner, picking up cellphones, and diving into the unknown miracles of the Wednesday night. A woman, who I see smoking cigarettes outside to avoid the dismay of her child, passes me. And I am alone here, wandering in the night, searching for nothing and no one and time goes and goes and goes, and I am alone.
Here comes a car, splashing through a puddle. Vroom, vroom, vroom. The sound of traffic and the washing machinery of emptiness. I am tired. These are my thoughts. You can look at them how you want.
