I picked up this old copy of The Odyssey (okay, well, since it is the oldest novel in the world, I guess saying I picked up an "old copy" could mean anything) from the 1940s, and was reading the translator's note, and it struck me how similar all my trying to explain how I write was to this guy's qualification for translating Homer how and why he did. And maybe that's really what I'm trying to do, see I've always labeled myself a journalist (and if you want to get into the difference between that and someone who writes "creative non-fiction" (blecch!) then you can go argue with your professor about it, but just stop reading me right now, I don't need your click or your royalties or your nothing, just leave... no. Yeah! I'm serious! Get the fuck out of here! I don't want you—shoo, go!) but maybe mostly I'm a translator. I think that's really why I'm doing this, because it seems like whoever that person up there in my head is might as well already be a dead person, in that, he (it? whoever lives in my head?) is as inaccessible and rigid and... well, just plain gone as Homer is. And it seems there is such a distance between whatever that thing is, and the living, breathing me (whatever that thing is), that the one that I am translating from is not someone who I could just call up and ask what they really meant by this, or maybe if they had another word they could give me for this, things like that. Like all that stuff from yesterday about men becoming caricatures of themselves, well, I guess picking up that old copy of Homer just sort of solidified that idea a little more to me, and especially the idea that I already am the caricature of myself. And as much as I'd like to think I'd be capable of change, that all of my ideas really just rest with this guy who's already dead, like I've got this old, Henry Darger-esque artsy hermit living in my head, and he's left all this stuff behind, and there seem to be ideas behind it, or behind some of it, but all I can do is just try to translate it, and guess what he meant to the best of my abilities because most of it is just the ramblings of a madman. And yeah, this is the condensed form of that morass in my head, if that gives you any idea of the complete mess that is up there.
And, just so you know, I am in no way comparing myself to Homer or Henry Darger, or whoever the Hell else I've mentioned already. The only similarity lies in the things that I've pointed out, like me and Darger both being old lunatics, or Homer writing, and me... doing whatever this is? Now, of course I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think I was good at it. I mean, I'm too fucking hard on myself as it is, and were I to completely suck at this then none of this would exist at all, and I certainly wouldn't be putting it out there for any of you vultures to get your critical, bacteria-ridden, little judgmental claws on—I mean... I love my audience SO much! Skrakowski fans are the greatest fans in the world! Thangyoo! Thangyoo! Brand new Cadillac!!! Brand new—
Here are some statistics about New York from the year I moved there, 2008.
Total population of New York City - 8.347 million
Total population of Brooklyn - 2.55 million
Okay, this just got real fucking boring real fucking quick, and I'll let you find out for yourself whatever the fuck else you need to know, and I'll just continue by giving some more logically fallacious anecdotal evidence of the stuff I was trying to look up.
One, of my only two trips to New York before I moved there, I was in a cab (cabs are what people used to have to drive before Uber was invented, they were orangey-yellow in color, smelled like gyro meat and cum, and the drivers were (usually) angry brown men who never knew where they were going and were mad at you for not knowing the directions where you needed to go) where I was being driven around by an old Jewish man.
"Vutt? And you are planning on movink chere? Vy?"
"Um... just to be in New York I guess—"
"And vutt is it you are planning on doing with yourself, huh Mister?"
"Uhhh... not really sure yet—"
"'Not really sure yet' he says! And where is it you are planning on living with this 'not really sure yet,' hmm?"
"... I was thinking... maybe the Lower East Side might be alrig—"
"Okay Mr. Imnotsureyet, and how much money are you planning on spending on this place, hmm?"
"... ummm, I'm thinking I can do 750 a—"
"Ha! 750 he says! You know this 750? This 750 you speak of, you know it? Vell, it is not a number what exists in Manhattan, did you know that?"
"Well I saw some stuff on Craigsli—"
"You saw nothink! NOTHINK! Nothink in Manhattan is this 750, vutt, do you see this number in the sky, you see it?"
"... no... I don't know, I—"
"That's right, you don't know! Oy vey ist mir, they come they don't know nothink these poor kids!"
And that was how you used to have to learn how dumb you are. Now in an Uber, where you have to rate the poor sap who's carting you around, he's never going to do any apartment locating services for you like that nice old Jewish man did for me! Like that nice zetz in the cup he gave me about my imaginary numbers, which, I was not making up about having a friend who had a friend who had a place for $750 a month. It just turned out that when I called to confirm that I had an apartment the guy told me, "Look. You're Amanda's friend, right?"
"Okay, well, since you're Amanda's friend, and she told me you guys are good friends right?"
"I think so—I thought so—what'd she say?"
"She said she loves you."
"Oh! Okay, God, I thought maybe she—"
"Well, since you're Amanda's good friend, I am going to tell you right now, that I will not let you move in here."
"But... it's $750 a month, I mean that's—"
"Yeah! Do you want three other roommates walking over your head all day?"
"I don't kn—"
"Because that's not even—look, I'm not gonna let a friend of Amanda's move into this fucking place. She likes you and I wouldn't do that—"
"But what if I need to live ther—"
"No way Man. Don't—look, just stop, alright? I'm just doing the right thing here, hey, hold on a sec—No! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! YOU! You GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK! Hello? Hello?"
"Who? Me? Or... the other—"
"FUCK YOU! I am SO FUCKING SICK OF—you still there? Call me back—NO FUCK YOU YOU MOTHERF—" click.