Editor of
Features Editor at Death & Taxes Magazine, contributor to The Week, Interview, and Vice Magazine.
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“Somewhere that moment lives on, and I like to think that somewhere on some plane of being that every moment lives on, forever being played out like grand celestial theater on a grander celestial stage. There you are at sixteen learning to drive. There you are again at twenty one and it’s your birthday. There you are at twenty three puking in a gutter. There you are at seven and it’s your birthday party and all your friends are there. The cake is always being cut, you are always there, in that moment, forever living it as a child of seven, too young to understand the line you’re walking down, too old to be lost in the soup of it all and remain unconscious. There you are, at six, sitting in that chair at the kitchen table, watching your Grandpa take a swing at you. There you are at eighteen graduating from high school. You are always graduating from high school. You are always driving, sleeping, waking, eating, fucking, shitting, pissing, loving, hating, denying, falling, rising, hungry, tired, awake, cold, warm, naked, alone, saturated, clothed, bathing, putting on your shoes, taking off your socks, shaving. There you are having your first kiss, first love, first day of school, first date, first beer, first job, first handshake, first heartbreak. You are in a state of perpetual destruction and reconstruction. You will never, ever, be full, but you will always, always be consuming. You are traveling through time and all the world is finite below you, you are flying over the city, you are laying underneath the ground at the same time. This is always happening to you, day after day, from the day you are born until the day you die. You are nothing, and you are everything. The sooner you realize you’re made out of the same brilliant matter of the stars, the sooner you can relax, and begin to take it all in. We don’t have much time, you the reader, and I, but we have all the time in the world, really.”
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writing the book on my dad is fucking tough. fucking mental heartbreak happening every time i sit down to write it. but its helping. its really fucking helping. anyway, theres 60 something pages not dissimilar to this paragraph. i promised myself i wouldnt put any of it up until i was finished, but a friend of mines mom passed pretty recently and maybe this’ll help the guy.
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there isn’t one word of this that isn’t perfect.
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