In all fairness, I think I should let you all in on a little aspect of my life.

I am a priest. That's right. Or I was at least. This whole thing about toys was the best thing I could comeup with. My cousin is the guy that does the toy thing and that is why I decided to try this town.

I left Oregon because I met a woman while I was priesting and had sex. Three times in two days. She then had a child which I considered divine intervention and yet the church did not see it as such.

So yes I have a child and his name is Will. He's in Oregon, I hope, and I hate my life because I am not there. The girl shacked up with a drummer from some jazz band from Frisco and I have not seen her since. The poor kid is witnessing debauchery at it's finest.

So all the stuff I write is a show. I am not the man I thought I was and the things that pop into my head I must write down, in the form of a self loathing writer. All I want to do is to work at Home Depot for God sakes. Oh what tangled webs we weave.

My name is Brian but if we're laying everything out on the table, I really spell it Bryan.

God help me.

It happened once again. I should say that it's about to happen. Nothing has happened yet although I'm pretty sure that they know it'll happen.

There is a scene in the movie Talk to Her (Hable Con Ella) in which the main character is listening to a singer in a garden of some sort, surrounded by people who are listening but are not really hearing what he's saying. The man is so moved by this singer's song that he begins to cry. The man singing sounds like he's just lost love and that he now realizes that he'll never get there again. It's a lament. I have no idea what he is singing about but I swear it chokes me up every time I hear the song.

For some reason, this man's pain is beautiful.

I get sick at the idea of someone constantly there. But they pander. They convince. We'll be happy. I don't know. Yes we'll be happy. Well what about my needs? I need loathing, I have no choice.

Sweetheart, we all have a choice.

I'm beginning to think that's not the case after I say hey why not, sure come on over, I'll grow to love you, but I have work to do, yes I want to sleep, but I can't now. Okay sure. It'll end badly, it always does. Consider yourself warned.

You don't mind? Oh, you don't believe me. Okay.

My guilt is absolved.

But why do you do this?

I can't help it. It's in my nature, says the Scorpion to the turtle.

Does anyone know a substantial amount about Jung's theory of the Collective Unconscious, and would like to briefly describe what people are constantly telling me that I walk the line of everyday?

If not that, can anyone suggest THE book, his book, to read about this? (ex. Existentialism, read the Myth of Sisyphus) I have piles of anthologies to read and yet, I'd love to sneak in some Jung. I admit, when it comes to psychoanalysis, I know about my mind as much you do . . . of my mind.

sqb, didn't you mention something about this one time or another.

On another but maybe completely related subject, I truly believe that I can make things happen if I subconsciously think about them. (FUCK oxymoron) Within reason of course. But the, man I'd like to meet someone who . . . and then BLAM, shit happens more than you know.

Shit like that. Are perhaps all the planets are aligned. Where's Mars these days, that fucker bastard always messes with my mind.

oh, my bad . . .

It's a shame though. I get this perverse kick out of freaking people out.

where have i been.

this is not a list and believe me, I truly adore (or abhor?) lists. But then you get into ranking and what's important to you, knowing that you may one day show this list to a third party (the first two being you and yourself). No my brothers and sisters, this is not that.

where have I been.

When asked this or contemplating this, you are diving into your STOP. I'm preaching again. Not to you, because who knows what this will do to you. Inorder to really capture you I must write a play about this whole experience although watching someone on stage typing is not exactly nail biting theater.

But wait.

Scene one.

(A man sits at a table center stage - 27/28, hair a mess, five day old beard which looks like he has not shaved so that he can go to the art opening on Friday night in the hip part of town and show off his new shirt he just bought and really fit in a conglomerate of people who all claim to have their own mind in-tact, he is shirtless, he has cuts on his arm from an accident he has easily gotten over, he wears jeans with holes in the knees. His space is disgusting - books everywhere, papers, laundry, a bra from someone he dated for two days three months ago is visible, along with five layers of shirts hung over his chair. A leather jacket with a beat up motorcycle helmet lays on the floor which stares back at the audience.

he is typing fast then nothing, fast then nothing. There is no expression on his faced. He rubs his eyes. He types faster, standing up as if playing a piano. He stops claps his hands and looks forward at the audience.

He cracks a smile. He stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.

The phone rings, he picks it up automatically then hangs up immediately. Starts typing again. He shakes his head maniacally. Deep breath. Gets up moves downstage stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.

A horn is heard and then a car crash. He returns to typing faster, and faster. Sirens are heard, then silence. He screams loud. Gets up, walks to downstage center and stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.

He reaches into his pocket still staring and pulls out a syringe. He takes off his belt. Sits down and ties it around his arm. He places the needle on his arm.

He is interrupted by an alarm clock. Without missing a beat, he gets up, throws the syringe upstage, grabs his jacket, and his helmet and a shirt. He exits stage right.

One minute passes and ge comes back in, and while standing, he types. He looks up. Smirks. Exits stage right.

Blackout.)

Nail biting?

It's not real after all.

where the fuck have I been