#andrew: trying to keep the cool facade and not break down laughing

[thebimarauder]

so we all know how sassy neil is just imagine

kevin: i’m going to be the deadliest piece on the board

neil: blank stare

neil: … i don’t know what that means i don’t play checkers

[shutupandshipit]

Magic in the Blood - Ch.5

Summary: “You used magic on me,” Neil said, mildly accusing. He opened his eyes, staring into the glowing honey gold of Andrew’s eyes.

“Don’t I always?”

Instead of answering, Neil asked, “Yes or no?” because his hands were aching to run along Andrew’s skin, up his toned thighs, to tug him down over him. …..

Or where everything is the same, but magic exists. The school year is over, there’s no more practices until mid-summer and for the first time, Neil can spend his time the way he wants. Without suppressants muddling his system and Andrew sober, they’ve got magical and logistical issues to work through.

And then there’s the new Foxes when they show which is a whole other magical nightmare of itself.

Pairing: Andreil

Rating: T

Previous <- Chapter 4

Chapter 6 -> Next

Chapter 5: New York City, New York Part 1

Andrew:

“Neil!” Matt called, engulfing Neil in a crushing hug as he flung the massive front door to his mother's house open.

They were standing in front of a brick-faced townhouse, the street lined with maples and family friendly cars. Andrew, Neil and the Maserati were the most out of place things on the street. He preferred not to fit in in a place like that, where perfect little families hid all of their bruises and blood behind closed doors. Nobody was perfect, and he hated the facade neighborhoods like that put on. That wasn't his kind of neighborhood, and they weren't his kind of people either.

Standing back and away from the bear of a man, Andrew listened as Neil's spine popped in protest.

Matt and Dan also stood out glaringly on the steps, decked out in Palmetto orange t-shirts that made him want to gag just a little. “Neil, Andrew, hi.” Dan stepped around Matt, smiling widely at Andrew. Once Matt had released Neil, she took her turn wrapping him in her arms, though more restrained than her boyfriend.

They didn't even look at Andrew as if they were going to greet him in the same way, keeping their distance as usual which was fine by him. “Hey, Andrew,” Matt said, nodding at him.

He didn't reply, standing on the last step, far enough away that the magic leaking out of Matt and Dan's pores didn't aggravate his own. After coming off his drugs at the beginning of the year and becoming intimate with Neil, his magic's immediate reaction to others' magic had calmed, only prickling instead of outright repelling them.

They'd been away from the team for nearly a week now, and he wasn't keen on finding out if his magic had reverted back to its original ways.

Dan and Matt's magics were leaking from all of their crevices, too much magic in too little space. That was a clear sign that they'd just had sex, and Andrew wished he'd never realized the he could figure out a person's sex life from their magic alone.

He didn't know if it had to do with his healing magic or protection magic or some random recessive family gene for love magic, but he could tell everything about a person's sex life from their magic, let along too much about the actual person themselves. He could tell everything from how often they had sex to whether they enjoyed it to who they were having sex with. Nobody really ever thought about it, but a person's magic told everything about them if it was paid attention to.

Which was information Andrew neither needed nor wanted. He didn't care about anyone, but the people that were important to him.

Dan grinned. “As talkative as ever, I see,” she commented over Neil's shoulder. Not unhappily and not at all surprised. “I know it's only been a week, but it's good to see you guys. You look relaxed. Matt said you went camping?”

Neil nodded, extracting himself from Dan's arms. “Taconic State Park.”

“You cut your stay a little short,” Matt said, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing between them, “Weren't you planning on staying out there for like a week? Longer?”

Neil glanced at Andrew. “We just got bored.”

Andrew cut his eyes sharply at Neil. “We were never planning on staying out there for a week.”

Conceding, Neil shrugged. “Like I said, until we got bored. That was long enough, and we both need a shower.”

Dan wrinkled her nose around a smile. “You smell like it.”

“And you two smell like sex. We all need a shower,” Andrew snapped.

Neil dropped his hands on his hips. “You're being a lot for someone who just barreled down the highway at a hundred miles an hour and avoided several police cars. I'm still baffled by how.”

Andrew cut his eyes to Neil. “That's a big word for you.”

“I'll show you a big word.”

“How about-”

Matt cut in, cheeks burning red as he cleared his throat. “I'll show you to your room. Then we can get dinner and chat. Unless you two are tired and would rather sleep.”

“Dinner's good,” Neil decided for them, narrowing his eyes at Andrew before he could open his mouth, “Is your mom going to eat with us?”

Matt shook his head. “She's prelims for a tournament for her protege today, but she already set aside time for dinner tomorrow.”

“Okay. Cool.”

'Not cool,' Andrew though, but he wasn't going to say that. Matt's mother's magic was minor, just a tad of strength magic that made her a terror in the ring. Strength magic was an overbearing, pushy kind of magic that made him nauseous to be around. Manipulation, a creeping, sickly magic, was worse. Whether he was born that way or had learned to be that way, he didn't know, but he couldn't stand the feel of them against his skin. He was lucky that Matt's magic didn't do the same.

Matt and Dan led the way inside and immediately up a set of stairs. The house was all white walls and dark wood furniture and soaring ceilings.

“The guest room had a connected bathroom. Mom said she left towels and some other stuff in there,” Matt said as they stopped in front of a black wood door with 'Guest' written in red across the paint. “We'll be downstairs when you're done.”

Andrew pushed into the room before they were done talking, dropping his supplies bag on the left side of the bed before disappearing into the bathroom. He wanted to wash off the accumulated days of sweat and dirt off him, but stopped in the middle of the bathroom. He kept himself from laughing as Neil closed the door. When he heard the clock of the lock though, he let out several hysterical huffs of breath.

Neil frowned as he walked in. “What are you-” Red climbed up his neck and face, his magic going spiky with embarrassment. “What does Matt's mom think we're doing while we're here?” he asked, staring at the wicker basket with a box of unopened condoms, lube, massage oils and several other items. The basket boasted a giant orange and white bow, and a note that they both ignored.

“Each other, evidently,” Andrew said, trying to compose himself, but failing as he lifted the lube, “At least she sprung for the good shit.” Despite his mirth, his magic was beginning to huddle close in his chest, tightening and shrinking as it used to when confronted with a bad situation he couldn't escapse. His body was growing cold.

That... that type of intimacy... The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. He trembled, throat constricting. He wasn't ready for that. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to be that intimate with Neil, even if he were topping.

Neil's presence wasn't calming in that moment.

Nausea curled in his stomach, bile rising up his throat.

Neil pulled the bottle from his hand without comment, setting it back in the basket and sliding it into the cabinet and out of sight. “Well, that seems a little presumptuous,” he said, but his tone asked, 'Are you okay?'

“Yes,” Andrew agreed, but his tone said, 'No.'

Neil nodded, taking a step back from him, giving him more space. “Shower alone or together?”

“Alone.”

“I'll be napping.” Turning, Neil left. He didn't ask. He didn't make a comment. He simply understood, and took his leave.

Andrew would never stop being grateful for everything Neil did for him, but one day he might just find a way to thank him.

…..

Neil:

Neil was lying in bed when Andrew opened the bathroom door, but despite being completely awake, he listened to Andrew move around the room without opening his eyes. There was the zipping of a backpack, shuffling feet, and then the bed dipping with his weight.

Andrew's warm clean scent enveloped Neil as he dropped down beside him, as close to Neil as possible without actually touching him.

Neil had to wonder if Andrew was forcing himself to be close or if he'd actually calmed down.

Neil turned his head to the side and opened his eyes to look at Andrew's half lidded eyes and half hidden mouth. Andrew's hand was curled in a fist close to his chest, and Neil held out his hand, palm up.

Andrew dropped a heavy chunk of tumbled rose quartz and a small one of snowflake obsidian into his hand. Natural moon magic radiated from the stones, tickling his palm.

Neil glanced at his hand, and back up to Andrew. “I don't know what this means,” he told Andrew truthfully. He'd never needed an apparatus to channel or mediate his magic. He'd been taught to only need his deities, and even then, that he shouldn't rely on them. Unfortunately, that left a gap in his understanding when it came to Andrew's craft. He could recognize some of the stones Andrew used, but didn't know what they were for.

Andrew covered Neil's hand with his, trailing his fingers over Neil's wrist. “Snowflake obsidian for balancing, to break certain thinking and stress patterns. Rose quartz for clearing out negative emotions and...” He trailed off, closing his eyes.

“Self-love,” Neil provided because he at least knew that, “You look tired.”

Andrew didn't respond.

“Do you need to talk to Bee?”

“No. I just need you. Just... don't move. Don't touch me.”

Neil smiled gently, warmth burning in his chest. “You're already touching me.”

“I know.”

Neil closed his eyes again. He could feel Andrew's eyes on him, but he could only feel the vague outline of his magic hidden away in his chest. He was already drifting off again, exhausted from the drive and letting his magic go so freely over the past few days and sheer amount of contentment at just existing with Andrew. “They're going to wonder where we are,” he mumbled on the very edge of sleep.

“Let them wonder. They can wait.”

Neil would have liked to protest, but he was too comfortable to want to ruin the moment. “Okay.”

…..

Andrew:

Andrew watched Neil sleep for nearly two hours. His hair was drying and he knew it'd be sticking up all over his head, but he didn't want to move and wake Neil. At the slightest movement, Neil would wake up again, but he looked peaceful when he slept. It was the only time he looked peaceful, truly relaxed.

In the end, he wasn't the one to wake Neil. On the bedside table, his phone vibrated several times in a row.

Neil opened his eyes immediately, his fingers twitching beneath Andrew's. He yawned, sitting up and pushing a hand through his hair. “What time is it?” he mumbled even as he reached for his phone. He was silent as his eyes flicked across the screen.

“Who is it?”

“Matt and Dan wondering where we are or if they should just get dinner on their own.” Neil ran a hand down his face, but even as he considered, their stomachs growled simultaneously. Laughing, he said, “I'll let them know we're coming down, but you should brush your hair first.” Neil held his hand up, fingers spread, at the side of his head. “You look like a rooster.

Sitting up beside him, still palm to still palm, Andrew carded his fingers through his hair. “It's because I'm a cock.”

“Jesus- Let's go downstairs.”

Dan and Matt were waiting for them in the huge living room, a game of War abandoned between them. “Finally,” Dan groaned, standing and stretching, “I thought you two were fucking or something, but it was so quiet. What the hell were you doing?”

“Sleeping,” Neil said, following them out the door. He kept his distance from Andrew, letting him gravitate as he saw fit, magic reaching out tentatively, but never touching him. “Hey, do you know any good gelato places in the city?”

…..

Neil:

Dinner went by quickly as they stuffed as many slices of pizza in their mouths as possible before the restaurant closed.

“I bet you can't eat more slices than Dan,” Andrew said offhandedly when their questions started getting a little too personal. He knew Andrew was stirring the pot only to shut them up, but he hadn't really wanted to answer questions either.

It worked better than Neil that it should have. Dan and Matt took up Andrew's challenge readily, and Neil spent the rest of dinner keeping track of their battle. Dan won by a two slice margin, and Matt spent the rest of the walk back groaning and burping.

The upside?

They didn't have any leftovers to bring back out of two large pizzas.

“Thanks for the food,” Neil said, stopping outside the door to the guest room, “And for the room.”

“No problem,” Matt grinned widely.

Dan stepped into his space, hugging Neil close and pressing a kiss to his cheek. That was the first time she had ever done that, and Neil was shocked into silence. “It's great to have you here. Tomorrow, Matt and I are going to help his mom with the tournament set-up so you'll have all day to yourselves. Don't spend the entire time in bed.” Ignoring how stock still he was, she winked and stepped back.

Shaking himself, Neil smiled. He did that a lot now, he'd noticed. Smiled. Smiled genuinely, not just to gain someone's trust. He felt like he hadn't had to fake a smile in years, but knew it had only been a few months. It always caught him off guard. “Don't worry about that. We're going gelato hunting tomorrow.”

Dan laughed.

Matt joined her, saying, “You don't like sweets.”

“And he knows it. Goodnight.”

They waved, turning towards their own door. “Night, Neil.”

Neil slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. Andrew was already tucked in beneath the covers. He flipped idly through his grimoire, ignoring Neil. “What are you looking up?” he asked despite that as he detoured into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a quick shower.

When he climbed in next to Andrew, he stared at him. “Stones,” Andrew answered.

Neil glanced at the open page, seeing his name above Nicky's, Aaron's, Kevin's and the rest of the team followed by different crystals. He turned his eyes back to Andrew before he could really internalize anything. “We should go to bed.”

Andrew clicked his pen in answer, closing it in his grimoire and setting it aside. They shut off the lights and tucked in.

…..

“We're going to get diabetes,” Neil said, staring at the table in mild disgust, “Or more, you are.”

Andrew looked at him, and said straight-faced, “I'll die happy then.”

“You have like six scoops in front of you.”

“Seven. And I repeat, I'll die happy.”

“Christ- you're the absolute most sometimes. A drama queen.” Neil nursed a cup of coffee as he watched, staring at the utter riot of sugar in front of Andrew. To be fair, the cups were small children sizes, but that didn't help the fact that there was seven. “Are you even going to be able to try any other flavors at the next stop? Why didn't you just try the tasters they offered?”

“This is better.”

Neil grimaced. “I don't think it is. And my question still stands.”

“Yes, I'll be able to try more.”

“I don't believe you.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Are you betting against me?”

Neil stared at him for a second, and shrugged. “Yeah, I am. I honestly don't think you're going to make it to the fifth spot.”

“You clearly don't know me that well.”

Neil raised an eyebrow. “I know you well enough.” He took a sip from his cup before asking, “What do I get if I win?”

“Not getting a knife to the face?”

“That's not a a fair prize. It's not fun.”

Andrew's jaw worked before he answered. “What do you want?”

“Teach me how to use magic like you do.”

Andrew snorted. “You could never learn that.”

Neil grinned. “That's what I want as my prize.”

“Fine.” Andrew dipped into the first cup, and his face immediately twisted at the flavor. Shoving the spoon back in the cup, he pushed it towards Neil before grabbing for another. “Eat that. It's disgusting.”

Neil sighed, pulling the up closer. “What is it?”

“Black licorice.”

He frowned up at Andrew. “You hate black licorice. Why did you get it? Didn't the card list it as the flavor?”

“It just said anise.”

Neil couldn't stop himself from laughing, hand pressed over his mouth as his shoulder shook silently. He pressed his lips into a thin line, trying not to grin. “Andrew, anise tastes like black licorice.”

Andrew's eyes jumped up from cup. “What?”

“That's it. Anise tastes like black licorice.”

“Fuck you.”

Every head in the parlor turned towards them, but Neil couldn't help his laughter. “I didn't so it!”

…..

They moved from gelato parlor to gelato parlor, walking for blocks and enjoying the sights. It's only two when they reach the fifth spot, Neil sighing out his defeat, and three when they reach the seventh.

The street are full of people, congested in a way Neil had never realized a place could be. Portland had been bad, but nothing compared to the streets of New York, and Neil found himself wordlessly slipping beneath stoops of apartment building and into empty alleys and little novelty shops along their routes to catch his breath. Andrew always followed him without question.

Still, he enjoyed the architecture, people watching, eavesdropping and petting the dogs that jumped in him. It was the only time he wished he had a phone with a camera, or a camera in general. To document the memories that he was making.

“I don't even know how you're still walking,” Neil said though he was smiling. They were standing close, backs of their hands brushing as Andrew considered the selection. “This was the last one on the list, right?”

“Sheer force of will,” Andrew told him without answering his actual question, and trailed a finger over the outside of the case above the cards with pretty cursive. He stopped at 'Cioccolato All' Azteca', a spiced hot chocolate flavor that they hadn't seen in the other shops.

He ordered before turning to Neil. “Yes, this is the last one,” he said and held out a hand.

After a night and morning of restraining himself from touching Andrew in any way, Neil immediately slotted their fingers together. They weren't much for holding his hands, but he was happy for any contact at all. He waited until Andrew had his cone in hand and they were out on the street again before continuing their conversation. “We've been out all day. You think Matt and Dan are back yet and wondering where we are?”

“Maybe. Probably not.”

After a moment, Neil opened his mouth and started to turn to ask a question when a burst of laughter fell from his mouth.

The end of Andrew's cone was sticking out of his mouth, the scoop and top of the cone completely encased in his mouth. He flicked his eyes towards Neil, raising an eyebrow and trying to mumbled around the cone.

Neil could see the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What are you doing?” he gasped through his laughter, hand covering his mouth as tears built along his lashes. “What are you doing?”

Andrew's response was a muffled, garbled mess, and the tip of the cone bobbed up and down as he attempted to talk around the intrusion.

“Stop!”

Andrew only continued, using Neil's hand to pull him closer, the cone tip just inches away from his face.

For a moment, Neil forgot that Andrew liked everyone else in the world could be funny at times, and he was caught off guard. He was nearly sent into hysterics from laughing so hard. He couldn't stop laughing.

Eyesight blurry with tears, he didn't notice Dan and Matt standing at a bus stop watching the entire debacle go down.

“Gods, stop! Eat like a normal person.”

Andrew shook his head before biting through the waffle shell and sucked the tip into his mouth. The sound Neil made was inhuman, and only made Andrew smirk.

“You're the devil.”

Still chewing, Andrew began to open his mouth and Neil covered his mouth with his hand. “You're disgusting.”

When Andrew finally swallowed, he pulled Neil's hand away only to pull him down into a kiss. They kissed for several long moments, fierce and then soft and then fierce again, ignoring the whistling and catcalling from passersby.

Andrew's mouth tasted like chocolate instead of cigarettes this time, and Neil never realized how much he enjoyed the taste of chocolate until that moment.

They pulled apart after a moment, and Dan and Matt took their chance to make their presence known. Walking towards them, Matt called too loudly, “Hey, Dan, isn't that Neil and Andrew? Hey, guys!” and Neil's face went hot with embarrassment.

[joestories]

Joe Gould’s Secret

So, I just finished Joe Gould's Secret, and I loved it. And before I start polluting my mind with all sorts of other media, I think perhaps I should take a break and reflect on what I just read, because I found it especially meaningful.

First, it's two excellent contrasting profiles of an interesting character. The kind of character I am both intrigued by, and slightly wary of. I was immediately reminded of my friend Mark.

He had a voice that could bellow, he had no problem being the center of attention, he was bold and committed to seemingly ridiculous quests for no discernible reason. I found being around him both completely energizing and scary. I would leave with stories, and I never regretted hanging out with him, but I always had anxiety when I knew I was going to see him. And thinking back, I wonder what he was getting from me? I certainly couldn't keep up with him, but I was a willing participant in his chaos, and a willing audience, and I suppose he was always looking for an audience. And I was an old friend, a high school friend, one of the few who maintained an occasional correspondence with him after high school, via email. He would occasionally send me poems. I didn't like poetry, but I liked his.

I started to dig for this poem, and found some of our old correspondence. I talk about working on a script for my next film, something that I am hoping will get into a festival. He talks about trying K, becoming a minister, and making wine in someone's basement.

Then I found what I was looking for.

I glanced in the mirror before I left the house to make sure I looked alright....

Everything was fine so I went for a walk down to the beach. I sat for a while wondering about the way electrical outlets differ from country to country. It really is interesting that they couldnt devise a universal system... Almost as inpractacle as foriegn sign language. I mean think about it, here you have a chance to do it right but do we take the opportunity to make something simple NO! we set up 50 different versions. Well that got me angry so I decided to get up and take the streetcar home. After 20 minutes of sitting on the cement smoking cigarette after cigarette the tram came screetching in.

I entered and handed the driver a dollar

"lovely night" he said

I said to the man "sure is, did you see that horse fall in the bay?"

"well no sir i didnt"

"good thing, it was pretty sad"

I sat down next to her, she was wearing a black skirt and a plastic safeway bag with a hole cut out in the bottom, It looked just like a plastic tank top. I said to her

"Nice night for a bath"

"I already ate she said"

I could see right away she wasnt one to be outsmarted, I grabbed a handful of grapes from the waiter and ate them while staring into her eyes.

"this is my stop coming up here"

"So"

"I just figured you might want to get ready"

"for what"

"to get off"

"oh"

I pulled the stop request cord and we got off.

We walked a block or two and then I saw a look in her eyes, one that I cant even begin to explain.... So I did the only thing I could. I punched her in the eye and threw her into a pile of garbage. I kicked her for about 5 minutes then I sat down next to her. She looked at me and understood. She picked up the umbrella from the garbage and proceeded to pound me with it. When my nose started to bleed and I couldnt see straight she stopped.

We looked at each other and shouted in unison

"YOUVE READ BAUDELAIRE!!!!!"

We both got up and walked to the corner diner where I ordered us both burgers and 2 bowls of water so we could clean our bloody faces.

We talked for hours,

I told her all about my experiences during the war and she told me about her brief stint as a clown.

Then she got up and said she had to go to the bathroom... It was then that I knew what I had to do.

I quickly put both burgers in my pockets and ran out the door so she could pay the bill.

I thought about her for hours that night.

How she smiled, how she cried, how she made balloon animals.

she was amazing.

Even when I went and set the Bank Of America building on fire I could only think of her.

The next day when I was running after a kid on a big wheel I thought for an instant that I saw her but I knew that could not be, the Germans took her away... I think she's dead now.

Mark wasn't a tortured artist, but he was most certainly a bohemian. He didn't have a great work, but I think Joe Gould helped me to clarify our friendship a little bit.

I also think of Andrew, another weirdo artist. I was blessed to have so many weirdo artists in my orbit early in life. Why am I not a weirdo? Did I think I would always be blessed with weirdos around me? Because I'm not sure where they've all gone.

I think I need to get a little weirder.

But I digress. Joseph Mitchell certainly sees something in Joe Gould. Mitchell is the straight man, the artist seeking inspiration from the fringes of society, and Joe Gould seems to embody that perfectly.

After reading the first essay, the worst word that might be used to describe Gould is irascible. He is someone proudly occupying the fringes of society. These are qualities that you root for because you're a frumpy old sod if you don't. You want to support him because if you don't you're not cool.

The first essay left me a little sad about New York in its current incarnation. Where are the opinionated poets and painters? Are they in Bushwick?

I loved the story immediately. It was familiar and it wasn't. It was New York, and I love New York stories. It was about an artist on an impossible quest, which is the thing I love so much in Paul Auster's stories.

It's also about life on the fringes, in Bowery flophouses, in the now gone diners and dive bars of the Village. And as sort of a straight man, I can relate to Joseph Mitchell's fascination (and later annoyance) with Gould.

So, we have this character who is a larger than life character writing a larger than life book in a past New York. Struggling artist, old New York, and an author who is himself a bit of a tortured artist. And the writing is so sharp and flows so easily. Mitchell is an incredible wordsmith, and Gould is such a fantastic subject. I found myself highlighting so many sections. Here's how the founder of a poetry event described Joe Gould:

“He isn’t serious about poetry. We serve wine at our readings, and that is the only reason he attends. He sometimes insists on reading foolish poems of his own, and it gets on your nerves. At our Religious Poetry Night he demanded permission to recite a poem he had written entitled ‘My Religion.’ I told him to go ahead, and this is what he recited: ‘In winter I’m a Buddhist, And in summer I’m a nudist.’

He seems to rankle all the right people. Knock down the people who are a little too self important. He's some weird patron saint of the intellectual underworld. He embodies the spirit of some sort of troubled yet resilient artist we want to believe exists.

But he's more of a symbol than a reality. The more reality intrudes, the less fun the story is. And this is where the much longer follow-up essay picks up.

The first story feels like it's a polished little gem. The doubts we have about Gould are "good" doubts. He's a character, he's rubbed many the wrong way.

But in the second essay, written years after Gould's death in 1957, the ugly truth is told. Mitchell becomes a character in the story, and through his relationship with Gould, you start to see cracks in Gould's facade.

Gould's presentation of himself seems rehearsed. He seems to have routines that he draws on and reuses, like a standup comedian who doesn't ever develop new material. People that interact with him regularly, such as the counter man at a diner, seem to hate him.

At one point, he describes how a poem he created may have turned a lot of people against him. It was a poem against the anti-capitalists, who were having a moment in the 1930s, and he felt like it was a trend, so he wrote a poem called The Barricades and took to reciting it at parties whenever possible. It would always make some laugh and others upset. Gould goes on and on about this poem. I kept wondering if we'd get the poem, and we finally do, and it's only a few lines with a cheap gag payoff. About the death of comrades (behind the barricades at a fancy restaurant) by over-eating. It's funny in a throwaway sort of way, but in Gould's mind it was this was a large, impactful work that hardened hearts against him.

More revealing is what happens when Mitchell starts to read his notebooks. He finds that they are all the same couple of stories, written over and over again.

Ah, I haven't even talked about The Oral History of the World. This is Gould's master work, introduced in the first essay, and it does seem to ignite the imagination when described. He wants to give voice to the underprivileged on New York, to share the lives and the words of everyday New Yorkers, so that in the (apocalyptic?) future, we might see in them hints of what was to come. And supposedly, his manuscript is over 8 million words. Doing some quick math, at novel size that's 32,000 pages. It's something fantastically long. 14 publishing houses have rejected it for being obscene or unreadable. He is working on it constantly. It is at the core of his identity. And when he cadges (what a great word, bring it back!) money from acquaintances and strangers alike, he says it's for the Joe Gould fund, which will allow him to keep working on it.

So, as part of his research, Joe Mitchell wants to read it. He is able to scrounge some notebooks entrusted to a friend, and is dismayed to find a discursive essay about his father's death, a tongue-in-cheek story (with lots of bogus and unconvincing statistics) about how tomatoes are ruining railroad conductors, a memoir about measuring the heads of Native Americans as part of a eugenics experiment, and an essay about his mother's death. These all take long journeys away from their source material, but as Mitchell turns up more notebooks, he finds only these four stories, told with different discursions, over and over again.

Gould explains that this is the essay part of the Oral History, there are also the interviews, but they are locked away safely in a basement in Long Island, since America is at war (it's 1942) and he doesn't want them to be destroyed. Mitchell wants to see them, and there's a story about how the owner of the house where they are kept is away in Floria, possibly for years, and won't allow access to them. Mitchell is about to kill the story, so Gould tells me that he has a fantastic recall of them, and they start meeting, night after night, in Gould's local dive bar, and Gould imparts more and more of the contents to him, until, after several of these 8+ hour sessions, Mitchell is satisfied. Wasn't this the framing narrative of Arabian Nights? The protagonist must keep telling stories so she is allowed to live another day.

Now, I've certainly had doubts about the existence of Gould's text for most of the essay, but it becomes clear what's what when Mitchell, in hopes of finding someone else to receive Gould's constant, exhausting visits, tries to fix him up with a publisher. This person is willing to go the extra mile in every way possible to clear all obstacles in the way of Gould having his manuscripts ready for publishing. Gould has nothing but excuses, with his final one being "I'd rather it be published posthumously." Which angers Mitchell, rightfully so, who has worked to get a publisher to meet with Gould (Gould skipped out on the last one Mitchell set up).

And in the end, it's clear there's no manuscript. But Mitchell doesn't want to shatter this thing that is so intrinsic to Gould's identity. So he keeps his mouth shut.

And it's too bad it wasn't real. It makes me think of the things that have come since that sound similar. There's Overheard in New York. And Humans of New York. Joe Gould was on to something, but he was incapable of following through.

In the end, I think I side with the author. While Joe Gould's would-be book sounds like it could be incredible, the real thing would likely fall short of everyone's imagined version. Even so, I want a world with more Joe Goulds in it. He invented a personality that worked for him and seemed to inspire outsiders to some degree. He put on a show. And I guess when you start to really know someone, the reality will always be disappointing.

Is this a cautionary tale? No, I don't think so. But learning that this was the last thing Mitchell ever wrote was sort of eerie. He was such a talent. Maybe that's the real story here; Joe Gould's undoing was also Joseph Mitchell's undoing.

Josh reminded me when we spoke on the phone today, he sees me as having a high level of talent. I'm not doing much with it either.

I did just uninstall Clash Royale from the last device that still had it, we'll see if that helps. Feels like kicking a heroin habit. I just threw it all down the toilet and flushed it.

"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow translates perfectly into sea gull," he said. "On the whole, to tell you the truth, I think he sounds better in sea gull than he does in English."