james spillane's five billion dollar concern: and other reasons why he isn't writing as much


For a while it was getting so difficult to write about anything. Not that there werenít any things on my mind that felt they needed voicing, there were things, for instance, I wanted to write a story about at griffin. I know it sounds stupid, but Iíve meaning to write a story about a griffin for quite some time now. The duality of this creature, a good versus evil sort of thing. But of course the sounding boards for this display offered to me were a little out genre.

Do we have a genre?

But every thing had sort of become simpler, my mind wanting to neatly stack every bit of information, emotion, and thought into neat color coded piles of equal lengths, an almost compulsive like feeling. And because of this, everything was simplified. I began meeting people and placing them into little mind piles, and then I began not meeting people which was easier. I would eat out at different restaurants trying out the variety of cheeseburgers until I had them piled away. Oysters-chowders-mayonnaise-everything stacked and piled neatly. And soon, eventually I began stacking my love, focusing, narrowing my sites and who I wanted to be, who I wanted to love until there were phone calls made.

There was also work, a lot of work. Work where boards and nails and hammers where involved. Creation, excavation, demolition... the laying of floors and walls and concrete. There were blisters, broken fingers and measurements to be had. Most of all there was dirt. Dirty hands and finger nails and dirty clothes and for some reason there was a lot of boogers, maybe it was the saw dust or the paint fumes, or the dirt, but on any given day I was looking to extract seven mean critters from my nasal cave. But in the end, when getting off work, taking off your shoes at the front door and peeling off your clothes like a snake against a tree where the shower awaited.

Now I want you to understand all this shower business with perfect clarity. In the shower standing in the corner getting the water right, careful not to let a single drop reflect off the curtain and possibly begin the process. No, there was method behind this. I just wanted to jump in completely, with the water aimed high, face level, all at once. The water hitting me like a soap commercial. Then all at once stepping back and watching all the filth form a river and churn around the drain before being flushed.

You see it was flushed; it was flushed out of my system. Gone, I was clean. Pure, I was polished and newly born like snow field before a footprint. Something I longed for. There were other things of course, feelings where all of this was coming from. A feeling in life where I fucked up so much and did so much wrong, that I was rotting from the inside out and at any moment one of my arms could fall off in a moment of leprosy and my heart and lungs and liver (most defiantly the liver) would decay into a green mash of mulch.

And things, these things you canít take back, you canít stack and pile and in the end you are left with nothing but truth, the truth about who you are and what you have done.

And eventually you start looking for this truth and more and more you start noticing bullshit. The bullshit is everywhere, all around you, you are swimming in it-it is filling your lungs and engulfing you like the fog of war. The cars people buy, their clothes and shoes, and the television shows they watch. And in your head... in your own voice...


George Bush


American flags waving in the background of every news anchor




Atkins and reality TV, and pills that make your dick bigger


And you havenít read the davinci code, or fast-food nation. Guys eating bugs and jumping from hot air balloons, girls crying, less carbs, less fat, milk is bad, milk is good. Pilates, hot Yoga, riding bicycles underwater because we are winning the war against the evil doers.

but there was this story I was thinking of writing, one where I have these dragon like abilities, I can walk around and breathe fire, exhale it like a frat kid puking... a deep breath and out it all comes... fire burning, singeing, and cleaning.