Facebook Letter to Ste. Claire and all the believers in Winnipeg

somtimes we all do not like the person we are.

crap, man. i do crazy stupid shit on a daily basis.

it's our nature, somehow.

i dunno if that means the weird christian catholic way--
i say NO! --

but something makes us self-destruct. individually, and as a culture.

maybe it's just evolution. fucking up is natural population control or something.

now, b----e and i are chatting still on facebook. it's funny, re-visiting a romance (a "failed" one, if you want) a year later to the day... with the person who was in it.

mostly, we're laughing. and in between, we say-- "yeah, that was funny". it's friendly.


but these days, i feel a bit like a tree planter: crazy isolated, endlessly overworked and sleep deprived, and in between that, either sleeping, eating, or getting trashed.

there is no in-between those states: i'm either sleeping, eating, working, or getting trashed.

and sometimes, in the form of the novel (or other writing), it involves working and getting trashed at the same time. there's only so many hours in the day. sometimes leisure and work MUST coincide. if you work too much, your work must become lesiure, i guess. and so it does.

but yesterday i willed myself to go for a long, long walk in the sun, over the giant bridge and over the St. Lawrence River and remember that i'm living in a great beautiful city of the world, and not in a moldy tree planting tent.

sometimes i forget that.

now listen-- come out east and visit cara and me and the dentist in one grand tour.

montreal is BEAUTIFUL. i mean it. there's a mountain in the middle of town, and the public art here is ridiculous.

and on that note, fuck writing, i'm going for a walk.

ha.

as if.