C.E. Santana's Blog, page 8
November 28, 2014
"There is something very intimate about smoking pot with someone—the fact that both of you put the..."
- Etgar Keret discusses his short story “One Gram Short.” (via newyorker)
New Years Resolution: Smoke more with you
November 15, 2014
November 12, 2014
New Short Story: The Escape
He deserted civilization. There was no going back. It was the best he had ever felt in his entire life.
That opening line was the first thing I wrote after getting on the train. I was two hours out of the city, in upstate New York, staring at the trees passing by and feeling okay about myself. I had finally done it. I was escaping.
Fuck New York! Fuck America! Fuck society! Fuck responsibilities! Fuck stress! Fuck the hustle! Fuck the struggle! Fuck jobs! Fuck dreams! Fuck trying! Fuck the effort! Fuck alarm clocks! Fuck a living! Fuck expectations! Fuck hoping! Fuck positivity! Fuck planning! Fuck building! Fuck progressing! Fuck networking! Fuck skills! Fuck bank accounts! Fuck money! Fuck saving! Fuck spending! Fuck going out of your way! Fuck selflessness! Fuck charity! Fuck rent! Fuck health insurance! Fuck happy hour! Fuck partying! Fuck buying clothes! Fuck shopping! Fuck bathing! Fuck first impressions! Fuck shaving! Fuck grooming! Fuck Metrocards! Fuck packed trains! Fuck rush hour! Fuck coffee! Fuck lunch! Fuck dating! Fuck marriage! Fuck settling down! Fuck love! Fuck fucking! Fuck rejection! Fuck relationships! Fuck people!
I thought people were going to say, what a selfish prick, how could he do that? I thought the girl I was speaking to at the time was going to miss me. I thought my friends would have liked to know I was going away. I thought I had responsibilities and had people counting on me. But once I got to where I was going, which was nowhere, I realized the only person that was going to be truly upset was my mother, and that doesn’t count.
You ever think of your funeral, expecting it to be like Biggie’s? A caravan passing through your hood, strangers crying, babies being named after you, girls wishing they fucked you, respect and admiration, friends remembering the time they spent with you?
Live moves on. It’s the only truth to the universe. The universe is infinite, ever-expanding. There’s always going to be new life. Even if it’s bacteria.
On the train, I ate a light lunch and drank a bit. I had to save money but I told myself one drink wasn’t going to hurt. It was a celebration. I finally did it. I had escaped.
I had some money saved up. For a bigger and better apartment in New York City. The loftiest of my goals. I had finally saved a significant amount through years of saving. I had saved up the money doing every job known to a useless man. Name it: dog-walker, bartender, waiter, bar-back, barista, extra, PA, clerk, cab-driver, security-guard, mover, landscaper, back-stocker, assistant, construction-worker, sign-holder, toll-collector, usher, house-keeper, bottle-collector, street-sweeper, doorman, bellboy, stripper, promoter, tele-marketer, mailboy, weed-dealer, bike-messenger, delivery-boy, line-cook, and writer. The latter didn’t pay shit.
I was on the subway heading Downtown to my new job at an ad agency when it hit me. There was a person, at least a remnant of a person, in the corner, hunched up in a ball like a cocoon. That’s a bad metaphor. A cocoon develops into a butterfly. This was more like a cocoon crushed by a carefree human grabbing on to a tree branch on a leisurely hike. Maybe a fitting metaphor after-all. This person reeked. This person, in a train full of New Yorkers, ambition propelling the train forward faster than electricity, had given up. I never felt more envy for another person in all my life. This person sat on a train smelling like piss and feces, saying fuck you to your life, all I need is here, a bench to sleep and shit, and it didn’t cost me $4,000 a month.
I got off the train at Penn Station and jumped on an Amtrak heading North. I had gone to Montreal once. I was now thinking Nova Scotia. Somewhere remote. I figured, whatever I had saved up for rent in New York could land me some type of land in the middle of nowhere. I could build a small cabin maybe. A shack? I wasn’t going to need much. A pit to light a fire and a hole to shit.
At the Canadian border they pressed me hard. I already knew what to say. I was there to visit a friend in Montreal. I gave them an address I had Googled on the train ride up. I was going to stay for a couple days and then go back to New York City, to all my success, why would I stay in Canada? They let me stay on the train, unlike an African guy sitting a few rows in front of me with a much weaker story.
In Montreal I loitered around the train station waiting for a train heading further North. I checked my phone to see what was going on in the world I left behind. There was a flyer for a party on Thursday. Someone ate a very healthy looking lunch. A hot girl I didn’t know in real life posted a really hot picture. I stopped myself from posting a picture of Montreal with the hashtag #seeyouneversuckers concluding that it would defeat the purpose. Fuck purpose! We die. That’s our purpose. Plus, I only had like 200 followers. Biggie had thousands more at his street funeral.
A few days went by. I was in a motel in some rural town near Halifax. I felt great. I walked around a whole lot, took in all the nature, smoked cheap cigarettes. My new life was starting. No one knew me. I was living in reclusion, in the only place it made sense: the middle of nowhere. Try being a recluse in New York. I don’t know how the Hikikomoris in Japan do it. I envy them. In New York, you’re always lonely in a city of 8,000,000 people yet you’re never alone. There’s always someone in your business: your roommates, your co-workers, your boss, your peers, your landlord, the 52,000,000 tourists.
I was truly alone for the first time in my life.
After a few days I sat down to write.
He deserted civilization. There was no going back. It was the best he had ever felt in his entire life…
I erased some things and added new lines but nothing was happening so I went to the local bar. People looked at me strangely and asked me friendly questions but then I was left alone. I finished off a few whiskeys and headed back to my hotel, a mile through a road filled with trees, the stars, and nothing else.
I took a plane back. I was exhausted. Went I got back to New York, I walked around my neighborhood, had coffee, met with some friends. They had all been busy with their lives. No one knew I was gone.
November 7, 2014
"Write to write. Write because you need to write. Write to settle the rage within you. Write with an..."
- Nick Miller (via psych-facts)
"I no longer believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight. But I was beginning to..."
- Lisa Kleypas, Blue-Eyed Devil (via psych-facts)
November 5, 2014
theimpossiblecool:
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you...
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.”
Kurt Vonnegut.
