Chapter 1

They say in this world, it’s not what you know but who you know. Unfortunately I don’t know a lot of people, I don’t even know myself.

My mind, you would say is broken, slipping like a record, constantly flipping from A-side to B-side. I think I only relax when there are no people in front or behind me. When I drive my car I feel relaxed, but if my car broke down, I wouldn’t feel that same relaxation. That’s me, I guess. I’m 38 years old, and I don’t know who I am or what I am doing here. Hopefully this will help me find out who I am, and if it helps some people out along the way, bully for you.

I am alone on a beach in Kennebunkport, I think it’s a dog beach, because of the amount of dogs, I see. I have always wanted a dog. My sisters had a dog growing up. My brother has two dogs. My sisters have dogs. My mom has a dog. My dad, pretty sure he hates dogs. And me, I’m dogless.

I think to myself where is my dog sometimes. I think you have to be a certain breed to be a dog owner. I wish I was, and think I could be. But alas, no dog.

I wonder why I think like this. Why are the demigods and demons in my head so damn finicky? Why do I only get seafood at restaurants? And why am I writing this when I should be listening to the operatic surf in front on me?

I feel I have missed opportunities, they are far away and seem to exist in dreams. Sometimes my dreams are so involved that I don’t want to wake up, except for the dreams where gangs and witches attack me. I can’t wake up sooner from those kind of dreams. But there they are in my head, and I can’t seem to understand where the healing hand went and if was ever there. That sounds esoteric, but half my life is clouded in indecision anyway so I guess if you are reading this, the lines have thinned and hopefully I’ll get to the point.

Here is a side note dream I had. It’s not really a side note, it’s actually a very prominent note. I feel in my heart of hearts that I could be doing something better with my time. I could be sailing or learning how to sail. I could be going to Tool concerts and traveling to England with my wife holding the camera. I could be in Icelandic temperatures smiling in photographs. I could be, but I’m not.

I do have a good life though, besides the major mental illness that I deal with on a daily basis. I’m a peer specialist, and one who is respected (as much as one who doesn’t respect himself). I don’t have any gang ties and I don’t know anyone in “Construction”. I obsess over that kind of thing a lot. The inner workings of the underworld, and the outer world, basically the whole world…I wish I understood it all.

I mean can’t I have a family member who fights fires or is a police officer? I am so unconnected from people, not only from the world but from the world that people is a part of. The only reason I am mentioning this is because, I wish I did, that’s all. I know a friend of mine whose uncle is a Statie, so believe me he has never gotten into anything he couldn’t get out of. Me, I have to use luck, fate and charm to try and get out of speeding tickets. I digress.

I am always thinking of things to do. My dad says I spike things on the 1 yard line. That’s his way of saying that I fail to execute things the whole way through. Basically my dad is right. Most of my life I have gone with the flow of things. Why should I harbor that sword, I have no idea. Conviction. Perseverance. Give me a swig of that.

This book…not so good yet.
My literary life is confusing at best.
Poet. Writer. I digress, I said it again.
But the s on my chest stands for Superman
Wielding a pen, like a magician.
My digital pen about to run out of ink.
Charge it up, I’ll be back again.

Yes, I am a poet. I am that annoying.

I wonder what’s its like to be an old man, shirtless on a Kennebunkport beach. Yes, that’s what I just saw, and yes that’s what I am writing. I also think I want a flesh colored bathing suit. That way people will look twice, and I would find it hilarious. I told my wife that earlier, but she was writing an email and quietly shushed me, and I went back to reading a book. A book which I am currently taking a break from. It’s a good book. It made me reflect on my lack of connection and thus this beginning of my book. The book is Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, it’s a great book, and I am trying to figure out if am an outlier or just an outsider. Either way I’m a writer and you are reading this book.

I feel nothing ever good happens in a motel. Driving past them on my way to the luxurious Hampton Inn, where I was upgraded to a handicapped suite, but Yeah! I realize how lucky I am to have the option to sit down when I take a shower. But besides that back to my original thought: Nothing good ever happened in a motel. I’ve stayed at motels in the past, and for some reason, I don’t know what it is, I had a feeling that either it was A) haunted B) A needle in skin situation and C) A dingy sex dungeon of sorts. Don’t get me wrong I’m sure good wholesome people go to motels. I am right now living the life. I am in a wonderful glamorous two bed handicapped suite in Wells, Maine, and that is alright with me. Anyway, back to this diatribe.

I just are Chinese food down the street, and the waitress is surly. And in the absence of crab rangoons there were fried wantons. I don’t know, but I think there is something wrong with that sitch.

My wife wants me to write about how beautiful she is. So here It is. My wife is a truly special woman. She gets my sense of humor and we generally have a good time. She is my rock on this rocky road of life and I love her for all that she does. Anyway I digress again.

This story, whether fiction or not depending the outcome ,is totally or maybe not totally the truth of my life. If I say that I am Superman that obviously is not real. I never robbed a bank. I never defended anyone in a civil law suit. I have never been at the time of this writing been in a Pepsi commercial. I have never been as of yet a sumo wrestler or simple farmer in the Midwest. I have never been a porn star. I could be, but so far have never been one. All the other stuff may or may not be true, depending on the forthcoming chapters of this book.

My digital pen is running out of ink so I will go back to reading a real book by a real author with I assume real connections to a real agent. I digress.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.