The Faux Pas Press #23: 2010

25 January 2010

The Faux Pas Press #23

A Weekly Thought

By Jason Fresh

2010

You can’t do more to me than I’ve done to myself. I have inherited all that I said I didn’t want. I have a wife, a daughter, a career, a place, a salary, and no excitement. I used to run through the streets of Monterey, San Fransisco, Dallas, Scottsdale, Tempe, and the dangerous alleyways of Plano, Texas – but not anymore. Now, I have something else; not better, not worse but something else nonetheless.

The Law of Attraction, as Oprah defined it, is alive and well. Most of the teachers of The Secret have either been arrested or sued. Life is good. What you think about, what you obsess over all day, is what you bring about. The shadow of all that is written, that ominous shadow that has not thoroughly been looked at, is all that has yet to be written.

I live in the shadow. I live with what I thought I didn’t want. Do we get what we really want in the end? Is there life after watching the movie The Secret by Rhonda Byrne and that guy who is now in prison?

How often, as words fill the yellow legal pads, do I feel at least just a little vindicated, just a little better about my ass-smear on this human history. As a few rejections from smart people come, I am forced to look at myself. I live in Hawaii now. (Not a bad lot if you don’t mind sunshine year round.) I have to reevaluate my position here, reevaluate my ability, reevaluate whether or not I am really good enough to do anything besides clean my daughter’s diapers. Speaking of diapers, I have seen others make choices that resemble human shit. I have seen people both speak of and accomplish taking their own lives. I have seen people controlled by the Mind, listen to insanity, and choose to live in shit.

I have decided that, even if the shit I put out stinks, I am going to enjoy my writing, The Faux Pas Press; I am going to smell my own fart like I do with fascination when no one else is around. This year’s writing is going to be me smelling a fart underneath the covers. This is enjoyable only to the dealer of gaseous death. (Every man, whether he will admit it or not, loves the smell of his own farts. I love the sound of my own words. I encourage you to enjoy the sound of your own words too. Do what you will with your farts.)

Like my wife when I let one rip underneath the covers, there are many who would be all too relieved if I stopped writing, and I can not, will not, give them that satisfaction – just like I won’t stop farting around my wife.

I may die a failure but I would rather die a tremendous failure than die a tremendous nothing. At least when you become your own brand, your own mark, you have the opportunity to be mocked and prodded.

When American poet laureate and mail-totting sonofabitch, Charles Bukowski, considered stopping all the madness; he was ready to stop writing for good, stop being his essential self, stop being the man who would become the most influential poet of post-war America. Instead he decided to say, “No thanks. No, I am not going to quit. When there is an ember, a tiny ember, a small spark, from that spark can come an engulfing fire.”

I have dreams and I’d rather die pursing these dreams than stop on the side of the hill to watch others reach the summit. If I die failure then I was on the road to immortality and didn’t make it. Let’s get this fucking year started.

Green Lights,

Jason Fresh

www.fauxpaspress.com