I am a machine, or at least I like to think that I am a machine. It is easier this way, to think that you are a machine and you have no feelings. God I can run. The beach is better for running because, well it is the beach. It is softer on your joints and you can just pick a spot way down in front of you, and just go for it, sort of like a machine.
I need a job. I searched and searched for jobs, but I am up in the clouds when it comes to looking for jobs. There are ones in Hawaii, and I can picture myself surfing, or not wearing a shirt and not feeling bad about it because Hawaiians are naturally fat, something to do with survival and island hopping, and how only the fat ones lived. I must be a survivor. The potato famine, only the Spillanes and a handful of fat families from Tipperary survived that famine, and here I am running on the beach. I am a fucking machine built to last, I can run this whole fucking beach with out food, smack dap in the middle of a famine, with out my shirt on, like a Hawaiian, an unemployed Hawaiian Irish fighting machine.
Chris has some of the best shit and I was glad to beat him at basketball. But god my fucking shoulder hurts now and I am eating aspirin like I drink beer. Which all has to do with the pain again. Chris lost so fucking much weight though. His face looks like an aids victim, a rape victim, some sort of victim. It is his fault though, that is why he lost. And I hurt my arm doing, but I backed him down every time. But he has it made, being there at his house I started to imagine my own little command station. A flat screen high definition TV, a computer and a snowboard, and that is it. That would be perfect for me. I would pull of the whole high tech thing, along with that whole hip young eccentric thing. I can see it now, “Spillane is funny, he doesn’t even have a bed, and he sleeps in a old north face sleeping bag off in the corner, yet he had five thousand dollars of home entertainment. What a fucking weirdo.” Yes this his how I would do it, but I need a job to do it, preferably a job that pays well and has medical coverage. I could still use my ex-wife’s medical coverage. How would they know? Did she change her name yet? What do they call her? Is it Mrs. Ferguson now? Or is it, Ms. Ferguson, I can never remember which one to use, is it “Mrs.,” or “Ms.?” There should be a default. How about I just call her bitch.
It is the rotor cuff, I am sure about that. I could write about the roto cuff. I could write about anything, and do. Should I concentrate more on my writing? I should have read Stephen King’s book on writing. What the fuck am I talking about, that guy is nuts. He is an idiot, just look at him. He looks like a rat with glasses. He is the sort of guy that walks down the street and parts the crowd like mosses, I can actually see the shoulder sockets of little adolescent arm’s being ripped and dislocated as parents pull their offspring out of harms way. “Here comes stevie, hide your children.” That guy has to be a molester. I could write about that. I don’t need to read about Stephen King, I have read how Styron and London and bukowski have done it, how they write, how they think about what they are gonna write, that is all I need.
That is what I am doing now I guess, my running up and down this beach, it is my time to meditate and think about what I am gonna write, to think about Irish people, and Hawiians, and broken down shoulders. To think about my ex-wife and her all to plain name. to think about my future home. God I am a machine, do you see this, mind and body working in perfect for, my brain thinking of things to write a whirlwind of activity. I wouldn’t go in that room if I was you, and my legs, like iron horses pumping themselves up and down this beach. Five miles? Could easily be five miles, who knows, I just run and run and think some more. Could I really write about all these things, if so, how would I structure it? I like the journal style structures, you know the whole date and time bit. A lot of writers are using that these days. I guess because it is so easy, it is sort of like a skeleton that you can add meat to, a framework. I think I will write about this, about the run itself and the whole thought process. Yes that would be great, a little egotistical, but who cares.
I am wondering now if I should add the dead whale. Actually it wasn’t a whale, but a sea lion, and if I wanted to make the story better I could add the whale. No I can’t add that, because if I was to write a story about the things I thought about while running on the beach, I would have to leave it out, simply because it is fictional, and really didn’t give it much thought. But I am thinking about it now, but only because my mind is in this sort of argumental state where is wants something to argue with, thus drawing itself into conflict. This is stupid, I am stupid, why do I talk to myself like this? Is it because ever story needs a conflict? Is it because every story needs a foil to push it along? But what is there to push along in a story about a guy running up and down the beach.
The whale and his eyes, or shall I say, the sea lion and his lack of eyes. Why is it that the eyes are always first to go? I know that answer, so why am I adding it? But anyway, the eyes are gone, they have been eaten clean out, there are flies dropping maggot babies into the carved out crevices. Gross. I know, But this is what happened, this is what I saw ten minutes ago running on the beach even though I didn’t really give it much thought, except for now, while trying to think of the perfect story even though there is no story.
I could add the eyeless sea lion as a motif. You see the sea lion has no eyes, therefore he is blind, which must mean that my character, the protagonist, is also blind. Yes that is it. But how am I blind? I am blind simply because I am running up and down a beach arguing with myself. Chris was right. I argue too much. I will argue anything, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why would anyone run up and down a beach, hopping over sea lions thinking is the greatest living writer? I don’t know, but I will write about it, I will show them. I am Spartacus.