Dear Mom,
Was reading a T.C. Boyle short in The New Yorker last Thursday
at the library and started crying. It hit hard, harder than
Joyce’s “Araby” even. I leaned forward and let
the tears fall onto the words and had a good smile at the sight of
that. No need to worry though, this happens sometimes.
Was compelled to make 10 copies of the short at the Xerox
machine and walk around campus leaving the copies in each of my
favorite professors’ mailboxes. No note. Nothing but the
story by itself. After that went home and read the story again.
Almost cried once more but the experience was overall much less
potent and more like intense nostalgia. Decided to take action.
It came up on me rather quickly. Was lying on the carpet staring
at the cottage cheese with Boyle on my chest. Figured I would just
fall asleep but was overcome with fear elicited by idleness and
stood up too quickly. Stumbled to the bathroom light-headed and
threw up some. Took some scissors and chopped off most of my hair
then shaved the rest. Scalp was cracked and dry, obviously
neglected. Ended up staying inside for two days letting it shape
up.
Cashed one of my paychecks and went to the Salvation Army.
Bought two typewriters and set them up on my desk, one facing west
and one east. During the day I’ve been writing on the one
facing west. At night the one facing east.
West has been nothing but distorted rationality. Critiques of
etiquette, propriety and fashion. Half-witted stabs at worthwhile
criticism and made up histories of inanimate objects.
“Television ““ Invented by S. McNab in Boston, 1935.
McNab, an MIT graduate who had been working as a mechanic in his
hometown of Millbury used his free time to experiment with optics
and radio. Later in life expressed regret for having created what
he termed the “˜single most diabolical device ever to wreak
havoc on mankind.'”
Been subsisting on nothing but soup and bread. As the sun sets
I’m chopping carrots and celery with such sanguine calm
you’d think, well, you’d probably not mistakenly think
me a youth gone mad.
Sun hidden away and I assume position facing east. Perhaps it is
east because I’m chasing the sun with my typing. … Anyway,
it’s all fiction and passion. It began with sheer streaming
thought, words and passions typed over and over. “Love love
love love lonely love lonely passion heart heart heart temptress
walking walking walking me me me still still nerves knife-knees
knife-knees loveless loveless.” Went through 200 pages the
first night. Fingers were predictably numb.
By the second night I’d steadied myself. Changed my
mind-set to that of a post-sunset zombie empowered by darkness
rhythmically trudging along and stalking his frightened brain-prey.
Ironic because I switched from my own first-person stream of
consciousness to that of Zarathustra hitchhiking across America in
2010. Ha! My homage to Kerouac.
Too attached to entrust U.S. Mail with the manuscript. Looking
forward to your arrival and thoughts concerning the text. Please
bring paper and ink ribbons.
Always,
Theodore
Tacsik is a third-year English student. The Bruin welcomes
submissions of short fiction from members of the UCLA community. If
you would like to have your work considered for publication, e-mail
a manuscript of between 1100-1400 words to Jess Rodgers, the arts
and entertainment editor, at [email protected], or stop by
118 Kerckhoff Hall. Please include your name and phone number with
each manuscript. Not all manuscripts submitted will be published.
Authors may be asked to edit their work for length and
clarity.