Near Fantastica .com - September 2007 Manifesto

September 2007

Dear San Diego,

The only time of day that you can go outside is after dark because it's too hot. Even the apartment, with Parker's old fans spinning at impossibly slow speeds, is better. I just lay on the couch trying not to think about it, trying not to move. Actually, there isn't even decent air conditioning at the theatre, which makes it about the same.

It hasn't rained in four weeks and the field across the tracks is getting dry and they've been talking about the possibility of another fire. I wasn't here for the last one, but it burned down some houses on the other side of town that were close to the woods. The trees went up and then fell on their roofs and that was that. I hadn't heard about it until last night when, after reading a letter and lighting it on fire, part of it was swept out of the ashtray and floated over the edge of the roof. My mind was on other things, so I didn't notice, but I guess it must have floated by the window downstairs because Parker came running up and, after seeing the rest of the letter burning in the ashtray, gave me shit. That's when she told me about the last fire and the rest of it.

I like sitting up there at night. I try and sleep most of the day so that I can stay awake actually. It's cooler and there's something about being in the mountains at night that's calming. I used to think being next to the ocean was calming, but there's just something about knowing that you're in the middle of nowhere surrounded by interminable peaks that calms me more for some reason. Maybe it has to do with the fact that every city that I've lived in that was on the ocean was, well, a city. In cities there is no truly deep quiet, not like out here, not even with people coming and going from Bikini Mountain all night.

So I go to work and sleep at the back of the theatre for a bit, sleep a little when I get home, and then go up on the roof after the sun goes down and try and muddle my way through War And Peace because Parker insisted I read it after I confessed that I hadn't. She said that no civilized person on the planet has any excuse for not reading it in their lifetime, so I thought I'd do my best to join the ranks.

Just so you're prepared - it's long. Real long. Sometimes I feel like lighting it on fire as well and throwing it in the ashtray, but have convinced myself that being poisoned by Parker wouldn't be nearly as entertaining as I once thought it might.

So I'll stick to burning letters from San Diego, which are scarce anyway. Actually, it wasn't really a proper letter, just a form letter letting me know that my divorce had been finalized. The burning was, of course, meant to be symbolic, but it didn't feel like anything, just a waste of trees. I guess there's some irony in that, being that Parker gave me shit and then lectured me about forest fires.

To be honest, I'd completely forgotten that I'd signed my divorce papers and mailed them back. It seems forever ago. The day I mailed them was the last time that I answered a telephone and heard that voice. I haven't heard it since, but I'll never forget that conversation. It included one of those idiotic moments of honesty where you admit to doing something you shouldn't have, in my case something on a business trip right after I met her. The response from the other end was predictable and dramatic. It wouldn't be until I ran into Gary Francis, an old acquaintance from high school that was driving truck up here, that I would find out that the guy she dated before she met me found out that she was screwing their boss behind his back. I guess Gary plays beer league hockey with him and I came up in conversation, so he filled him in. So there's karma for you, all the way 'round.

It seems a waste of time to even think about it really, maybe that's why I burned the letter. Then again, it certainly didn't warrant the risk of a forest fire, so I guess Parker was right in the end - I am a moron.