Notice how none of us wrote anything on Halloween. That’s because we’re all fucking vampires. Fitzcarraldo, Sterling Fassbinder and myself, TRUEBOY. The “T” stands for nice.

I’m dreaming of a city. It is my own invention. I put the wheels in motion; to make THE BIG DECISION.

I feel a weight upon me—shadows on my veins—even way the fuck out here. On Hallween evening the sky looked like it was colored with plain white chalk. I was out in the front yard having a smoke. Will won’t tolerate cigarette smoke and I don’t blame him. Everything is neat and stacked and polished in a nice, not overly fastidious way. It’s comfortable. His L.L. Bean wearing, horn-rimmed glasses employees eye me cautiously as they move between the kitchen and their offices. They seem to know that I could potentially destroy everything; ruin this place with stenches both real and imaginary. I don’t give a shit about them, but Will is the master and I am his guest. The one that was unplanned and unannounced, who over a week ago literally just showed up on his doorstep. So I smoke “all the way” outside. I won’t light up on one of the many terraces, even when no one else is around. It’s gotten so that I like my little trips across the front yard—my feet aren’t used to walking, so they seem to bounce and float over the hard cold lumps of soil. I can smell the grass that grows in huddled clumps on the front lawn. It’s making its last sharp exhalation before entering a frozen slumber. The last stand: I stare at the twisted tops of the thick, poking stalks.

As the sun sinks everything turns black and white—except for the shiny cars spitting exhaust as they turned the corner. In the backseats are kids in homemade costumes. People are artsy-craftsy out here. Large chested, smiling Nordic types abound—baking and cooking and pouring milk. It’s just like everyone always says it is, only tougher. Sewing and cooking don’t make you homey and nice. When I think about it, what I’d really like would be to live in a landscape just like this, but without any people around. Just this house and nothing else. Maybe the pristine white columns of the Art Institute down the street. Icould set up a studio there. A factory with turntables in the middle. At 9 o'clock a line of long white busses would pull up and drop all the people off to work for me until 5. I fed them lunch of course--benevolent dictator.

I can hear Fitzcarraldo in my head: “How could you want to be completely alone? Out in the wilderness? No services and no amenities! Jesus. Where it’s seriously out there you don’t have cappuccinos or draft beer. What would you do without…”

…breakfast weed. Redthread indeed…

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