One last birthday

I have the notion that I'm dying, no particular reason for it, a general sense of frailty. In two weeks I will be 68 years old. The last thing I want to do is shiver through another winter, and I don't see much purpose in doing that. How did old indians die? -- walk into a frozen cave, lay down and die. Better than suffering in a hospital bed, plaything for medical experiments that never work, bombarded by television. I can't think of a worse hell, inescapable TV made by evil shitheads. Maybe that's what mythological hell is like, tormented by the obscene, a long wicked laugh at my expense. Memo to Lucifer: it won't work, bub. I don't care what you or anyone else throw at me. I've been ridiculed plenty, no stranger to verbal punishment. Try physical torture.

I have to get in line with reality. No one will ever find my work, buried under a mountain of horseshit on the web, millions of people in universities pushing conventional wisdom. If you want to honor my death, play Led Zeppelin's 'When The Levee Breaks.' It propelled my first novel, listened to it looped endlessly while I wrote the action scenes. Make a note (hat tip to Alejandro): music first, then story.

Another note. Talented people are generous. I don't know that I include myself in that class, but maybe I am, always generous with other writers and filmmakers similarly situated, good work that didn't stand a micron of hope to be recognized or rewarded by the Jews. Sorry to be offensively blunt. Look around, follow the money in publishing, movies, music, stage. Drunk or sober, Mel had it right. Nice that I shared dinner and lunch the next day with him, a great guy. Not the best actor on Earth, certainly not a director, just a wonderful man with plenty of women and children. I understood him. I lost track of how many women and children I had. Someday someone will write a nice biography of Mel Gibson. That's the difference between him and me. When I die, everything I did will die with me, unacknowledged.

The world keeps secrets. Sigh. Too many to discuss. Obama's school records are sealed for a reason. Hillary destroyed emails for a reason. The Civil War had nothing to do with slavery. The U.S. Constitution had little to do with deliberate rational design.

Hmph. This wasn't supposed to be a political screed, damn it. I wanted to wish myself a last happy birthday greeting. Dead certain that no one else will. There is a wife and daughter up the hill who will ignore September 30th, dissing Dad for the thousandth time. People indulge bad habits to make themselves feel superior. My bad habits are slightly different. I smoke pot to see visions, feel the beat of life; cigarettes to kill the pain of loneliness.

I think I've covered everything in essays and autobiographical stories, clips and stills in a five minute salute to myself. Happy birthday, Dorf. Long way from juvenality to Wolf DeVoon. It could have been far worse, a machinist's apprentice or factory hand.

Bye, Clare.

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