Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / By Age / Broke Writer /
2006 07 27 While first writing Dark Beacon I met my beautiful friend Dyan in a state park camp ground near Jupiter Island. She’d brought her young son to see his natural father. The father didn’t show up. Jupiter Beach was cool and windy. Dyan wanted to go to the Keys.
I couldn’t afford to go to Jupiter Beach when I was only a couple of miles from it, but what the hell, for Dyan’s sake …
She said we’d go dutch.
When Dyan first set foot inside my camper she’d shown curiosity as to what file I so carefully saved before closing up the laptop. I woke the machine and let her read the first paragraph. She really really liked it. A couple of days later we’re on the beach at Islamorada and I tell her I’ve just gotten an idea for another story — I’d initially thought of Dark Beacon just as a short treatment — no surprise, it grew. Dyan, complementing me perfectly, female to male, reader to writer, yin to yang, asked what my new idea was.
“The Mass Murders,” I blurted. “Oh?” She’s waiting. “Yes. Someone kills people while they’re at mass.”
“That’s horrible,” she said.
Her reaction knocked the idea right from my head. Dark Beacon took me over anyway, but I can’t even remember what my gimmick was: only my punning title.
Now, in this context, in association with the idea of mass murder, I recall a joke my wife didn’t invent but did use in connection with me:
My husband doesn’t get ulcers — My husband gives ulcers.
Now I can show you why I brought these few threads together:
pk has never considered suicide; or seldom, and never for more than a split second. (My friend Anton once said (speaking of beaches, we were at Jones Beach) that I would never commit suicide: I was far too sane.) (I sure wish I knew, then or now, what my friend Anton meant). But: as a failed artist, as a failed teacher, as a failed revolutionary, I would consider murder.
Not for revenge; Jesus’ advice to forgive our enemies was surely the best advice possible: for the ongoing sake of the victim. Forgiveness I am sure does less damage to the self than revenge, forgiveness may be positive and effect the opposite of damage. But I’m not thinking of me; I’m thinking of my work.
If I believed that murder would help publicize my work, I’d commit it in a heartbeat.
But only once I believed my work was close to done: I wouldn’t expect to get much writing done on death row. Therefore the murders must be delayed until I can do no more real work.
Ah, but once I’m washed up, down the drain, have no power for the Mac, am near brain dead … then by all means.
|2014 01 13 I see from the above date that I wrote this post a few months before the FBI arrested me under the pretext that I’d threatened mass murder. Even if I could have produced this post or shown other examples of my political satires, my sarcasms, my ironies, it may not have helped: the government, the thugs, were determined to misunderstand.|
Supposedly the guy who set fire to the Library of Alexandria wanted to be famous. Doesn’t sound like good casuistry to me. But if the only way Homer could get his songs sung was to kill more people than Achilles and Odysseus put together? in an already crowded world? Absolutely.
With regard to murder, I don’t approve of it. Though I hope the bulk of humans die — to leave room for those remaining — I want it to be God who does the killing: or nature. Natural law. Shit in your drinking water? Die, dog.
People don’t like getting murdered. Mass murderers get a lot of press.
Maybe good can’t be done. Maybe it’s too late, maybe it was never possible. In that case maybe the Alexandria arson’s casuistry isn’t so faulty after all.
If only I could kill by the million, by the billion!
I should never have gone to Columbia. I should have aimed for West Point, studied under Stalin while he was still alive.
Again I apologize that I’m telling an unimportant writing memory when so many basic stories of my difficulties and adventures remain untold. The important stories are of people pulling my pants down, tripping me up, laying snares for me … blackballing me.
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