In his review of BUZZ, Jonathan
Zwickel said it failed until it succeeded.
Not exactly the rave an author hopes for but not a
complete pan, either. He described it as an
imperfect book about an imperfect character. Well,
I knew it wasn't perfect but I also found the more
I tried to perfect it the worse it got. No writing
is more perfect than the blank page it besmirches.
Emptiness is perfection. Everything else is just
the human mess.
I don't care about money. I kind of resent it. It
feels like a practical joke that's been played on
humanity and nothing is funnier than when people
kill for it. I can't even get worked up about it
as a means to an end. The indoctrination goes:
work now, save enough, then you can have what you
want. But you can't buy a lifestyle. You have to
live it. Eliminate the middleman. Last year I
decided to cut to the chase and live the dream. It didn't work out.
But by failing I
gained experience. A better opportunity came
up and for the 5th time in 30 months I found
myself Maui-bound on an airplane, that floating
room with a door that opens on a different place
than when you first walked through. This road
leads to space and silence. I'm attracted to
subtraction. I may be chasing rainbows but I'm not
searching for a pot of gold.