Excerpt #1 - Paris

Writing a book can be an occupying task. Me and Durban ran through the first swing and are now in the process of drafting - which falls mostly on my shoulders...but that was the deal. Stick to strengths. Anyway, I have little clue what to even try to do with this thing once we're done, and I've found that to be something of a comfort..to just focus on the work and not on a theory of hope that's doomed me in the past. So anyway, this is going to be long and arduous in all the best of ways, and I don't believe in self promotion totally (see entire blog to refute this statement)...but what I do believe in is promoting Durban and his work because I think he's a lunatic genius and because our work is going to be housed together and under the same roof - thus indirectly promoting my own work at the same time. As we get through these second drafts, I'm going to start posting pieces...some sort of prelude to the entirety, if you will, starting now, with Monsieur Durban...

His eyes lit so bright when she called. I’ll never forget it. I ordered a drink, followed him out into the hallway, keeping my distance, out of sight. Poor kid, I thought, no one deserves what he was about to go through. Personally, I’m a man who finds beauty in life’s less finer things, believe there’s nothing so beautiful as a broken heart. As much as it pained me to watch the suffering of my newfound friend, there would have been nothing in the world worthy of prying my eyes from him. I watched, and I sipped my drink and I waited and felt the imminent rush of destruction approaching.

There was a point in the conversation where he turned to face me perfectly, just as his world began to change, and he held steady, and I was able to see everything in his face, the moment of it all, the moment she so bravely told him. I was so proud of her, watching him unfold, knowing how few would be either willing or able to give him freedom like that. That fucking whore. She would never find someone one tenth of him. That lunatic cunt. I wanted to kiss her and rip out her throat. I wanted to fuck her and saw her in half. I watched as a seam opened along the front and center of Burn’s body and I waited and watched as if the whole of his insides were going to spill out onto the floor. They didn’t. He covered his brow with a hand and began to walk in circles, rushed and moving and I knew in that moment my actions had cauterized a bond between us. He was now my responsibility. Whatever fate he sought for the rest of his life, I would have no choice but to adopt it as my own…and I was willing and ready for that.

Paris 2...

Few words could effectively explain the genius I'm becoming...

I say this, of course...before being distracted by a tantruming Asian man two blocks North of Republique. He's jumping and screaming, pumping madness as if auditioning for the next Hunter S. Thompson novel. I wont tell him if you don't...our friend ate a lovely shotgun blast to the face and wont be joining us for the rest of eternity. Seriously though, how else could he have gone out?

But this guy is totally going to get wiped off the street by an angry Parisian on a moped...if that can even happen. Fucking French...

Let us, for the sake of time get back to my genius and the decision to train for the original 26.2 mile route from Marathon to Athens. Today, I put in 6 that inevitably brought me to the part of town responsible for housing the city's most talented pickpockets and cab drivers. No further evidence was needed after I passed a welcoming "RAPE" sign in front of a hotel. Certainly, this was not an avenue dedicated to venturing Americans.

So, he's kicking leaves in the gutter, screaming obscenities in what could perhaps be...Malaysian? Yeah, I'd say he's crazy if it weren't for the day pack and a bottle of Evian. Someone must have slipped him something. Shit...I hope this isn't one of my roomates...

I visited the orgy of grandeur also known as the Louvre today. Too much. Far too much...so I made a personal deal to breeze through before the 26 songs on the Zepplin Remasters dried out on my I-Pod. I made it out by "No Quarter" which if I may mention, was impressive. How? Why? Well, I'm over it. I'm over the hordes taught to revere the past. Over the digital cameras and the mindless happies being happily directed by arrows to what should be considered beautiful...as if it were a label. In this respect, parts of Paris have certainly been troubling. I wish they weren't...but we are what we are, I suppose.

Turning the corner on the second wing at the Louve, I came face to face with that squinty tramp, Mona Lisa...and couldn't help but wonder. Who the fuck are you to look at me like that? Understand...I would have been the best you ever had. Ever...ever...ever...

Bitch didn't say a word.

Paris...

I was getting into the shower when Tom knocked on the door. He introduced himself as a postal worker from Pittsburgh and I let slide the fact that he was at the very least, 24 years past his prime to be making a second tour on the European backpacking circuit. He was candid and friendly, immediately peeing without closing the bathroom door, and I was pretty sure that I almost somewhat partially liked him.

He told me about his day and quickly offered his pipe in an obvious attempt to reach out to another weary traveler. 'Amsterdamian Belly Rolling Bud' was what he called it. One sniff spoke devil's trouble and I passed. Partly because I'm a daylight lightweight, but mostly...it would have been far too much closeness between me and my new sketch friend.

I spread out on the cot and it hit. Heaviness from the redeye out of Newark. Heaviness from being the only white boy...wedged in the middle of the middle section of an Air India flight. Heaviness of landing in a country where my greatest weapon...that of the tongue, rendered irrelevant. Heaviness of figuring out one of the greatest metropolitan centers of the world toting a 100 pound backpack and a sleepless mind.

He launched into a rant, vast and aimless...quickly covering the religious conspiracies swirling the world and I closed my eyes. In that moment, I realized my only potential defense...pretend to fall asleep.

Three minutes later, Tom stopped talking. And if there's one assurance I can offer, it's that Tom struggles with the principles of a clean conversational 'break.' He left the room to pick up his laundry and I feasted on 17 minutes of sleep.