The Trilogy of Me

My life is an open book. Except pages 473 and 474, which got ripped out somehow. They were lost on the train ride to Nantucket, and may never be recovered. I’ve been looking to see if they’re being pawned on the black market. Not having them there messes up the general flow, with some key information about espionage and reconnaissance getting missed. By page 482, you’re scratching your head, having no idea how each piece of furniture fits into the equation. It's really confusing not knowing what their nicknames are too. Sure, I could rewrite that section, but at what price? It wouldn’t be the original. The mind is funny that way. Trying to reconstruct becomes a contrivance, turning the process into a synthetic gesture, which is something nobody wants and will thank me for avoiding later.

And then chapters 6 through 8 have been listed confidential pending legal action, which was a big fiasco. I could tell you why, of course, except for the fact that it would violate the alleged phantom court order I need to abide by, and then I might sue somebody for breach of author-publisher privilege. So I can’t even tell you why I can’t tell you. (I could nod a little if coaxed enough) Ostensibly, international treaties are dependent on the outcome, so I tend to be partial to them if only for sentimental reasons. I gave my heart to the Russian mafia, and eventually I’d like to have it back. In chapter 9, I make a good case for that factor, so it will make more sense.

Furthermore, my character development overall is admittedly quite sketchy. The protagonist sadly isn’t all that believable, nor very easy to empathize with. By the second chapter, you’ll be rooting for the antagonist to be triumphant. In chapter 4, I take a nap and keep the dialog rolling. I don’t even let you know what I’m dreaming, it’s more like “Breathing in, pause, breathing out... lather, rinse, repeat...” That goes on for 28 pages, as a literary device to lull the reader into a sense of utter stunned bewilderment, which then sets up chapter 7 quite nicely. But I guess you’ll have to wait till later before that one is released to the public.

And then I originally left out important details in scattered critical chapters, which will require rewriting at some point. I forgot to say in a strange twist of serendipity my favorite milk curiously went from 2% to 1%, and then back to 2% again without any apparent cause. I can be unpredictable that way. Consequently, you never know what the hero in the story is going to do. It may alienate some reading faithful, while causing yet others to question why they even bothered getting up that day.

I likewise didn’t mention that at age 26 I spent three days in the Himalayas, where I gained enlightenment and ran up a $4000 debt on my MasterCard. I still think it was worth it, even at 16.9% interest. I probably didn’t mention it because it was blocked out of my mind due to the resulting confrontation on my return trip that I had with a beekeeper in Botswana, and I don’t even remember being in Botswana. Some of these pieces may tend to confuse the reader, but the hope is that they’ll hang on for the ride.

Starting on page 217, I ponder over whether penguins ever lie down or if they’re like Weebles. I bring in a panel of world-renowned experts to pontificate. It turns out to be the core theme of the first book, recurring in several places. I won’t give it away, but I’ll just say you’ll like how it all comes together, and things are not as they seem (wink, wink).

With page 382, I start into a series of philosophical meanderings, such as how any city could really have a population when people are being born and dying all the time, and people moving out and others moving in, and then many of those who live there are gone and many of those who live elsewhere are visiting there. It’s all arbitrary, which then leads right into a discussion of why it’s not safe to estimate anything which could potentially be above the number 4, and how this lends us answers about the nature of the cosmos. This is going to be groundbreaking, at least somewhere.

Right now I’m on page 644, which is probably a good time to bring in the mysterious swami who specializes in the art of lip-syncing to Richard Nixon’s speeches. He comes in very handy when my caravan runs into a troupe in the middle of the Mojave Desert which still thinks it’s the ‘70s. This is where the story really takes off, and works as a great segue to get the reader excited about the second installment.

Otherwise, my life is certainly an open book. I don’t see what the big deal is anyway. Even a closed book isn’t that hard to read. You just pick it up and turn the page. It’s not like books are locked. And they all use the same letters. The only difference is how they’re rearranged. If you can scramble letters good, you can write. I give this secret away in the epilogue. Well, I guess it’s not a secret anymore... but you should be able to still read the book without losing too much of your life in the process. There's your ringing endorsement, boy.