I can never sleep, being a writer is like being a schizophrenic- voices running constantly in your head and those voices spouting off imagery that hopefully when put down on the page mean more than what they normally turn out to be (shitty sentences of intricate structure without meaning). For me, creating art is an exercise of exorcism for those things that ail the person who creates them- this is why the troubled and maladjusted ones always create the greatest works for me (e.g. Bruno Schulz, Doc Humes, Knut Hamsun, Henry Miller, Van Gogh, Rimbaud, Robert Walser, Thelonious Monk, Berlioz, Brecht, Beckett, Phil Spector, David Markson, Dostoevsky, Andre Gide, and George motherfucking Michael among others).
The majority of my life I’ve slept only a few hours each day, catching the sunset and sunrise every day, working from night till morning and morning till night, going to bed at 8-9am and waking up at 12-1pm; several nights never sleeping- always working, always writing, always creating and never stopping; in dreams drawing outlines for future works and projects, talking those dreams to sleep while dreaming up larger ones, never leaving my world / work for the world around me unless it’s typing in the street or talking to strangers for fragments of experience for future chapters of unwritten novels or pieces of paintings that I’ll keep for myself– so it was interesting and everything amazing to be typing stories for strangers at The Citrus Report Open Office.
What follows is a run-on sentence of thank yous to persons random, necessary and close to me. Written at seven and a half in the morning after coming back from a friend’s house / happening through a night drive with the sky bleeding from night to morning light. —
To the two women who cried after reading their stories in front of me on different days, coming back for each remaining day thereafter and saying that I had no idea how much that I touched you- you have no idea how much you’ve touched me, to everyone who brought in gifts large and small- I want you to know that they are all gargantuan mementos of the moment for my memory, to all who came in and talked for awhile whilst sharing stories of their own, to those who looked in the window perplexed and immediately walked away when making eye contact with me, to the guy who tried to pull down my underwear while I was putting up a post-it, to that girl who succeeded later in the night, to Nasia, Jennifer, Ben, Graham, Gregory, Melinda and each and every stranger (now friend) who came through, to everyone, to you, to she, to he, to the new, the old, the perspiring, the inspiring- to the guy who came in asking questions about the bus nearby who then stayed for half-an-hour speaking of your solitude, to those women who came in stumbling, sitting down for awhile while drunk and talking of their future before breaking down and explaining how lonely it gets to be sometimes when you get to be near-forty and without a warm body beside you in the morning, to the woman who came in and sat staring at me, asking if it ever changes, if the world will ever walk with contentment, to San Francisco and its curious season of a gray summer, to the elderly couple who came in and sat sharing a chair for a moment speaking and talking of typewriters and how they’re like old relics and friends no longer near, to the ways in which you said that you were the last of your circle, that everyone you knew intimately had passed on but that it was okay cause you two had each other- holding hands tightly as if to hold onto this current conundrum of life and its strife, to anyone who purchased a zine or donated a dime- allowing myself to eat and help feed my art for the future, to Kate, Raymond Brown, AK, Nisan, Luis Mendoza, Alex Pardee, Kevin Hayes, Joe To, Mars-1, The Flopboxx, Joshua Blank, Pez, Paolo, Dino, Keiko, Kokoro, Dave, Denzzollo, Sasha, Saelee, Sonja, Sherry, Liz, Lynzy, Tanley and to all friends old and new – to all that came through – I love each and every one of you.
– Jason Jaworski
Los Angeles, CA – 2010