Jett Diamond

The Bohemian Symbolist

            Take a trip: East 10^th Street in New York, 1973. In a cheap $16-a-week rented room, one may find 24 year old Richard Hell feverishly hammering out words on a typewriter. Hair cut by razors and clothing torn to shreds, he remains surrounded by the masses of paper that would soon become his first novella, The Voidoid, a surreal trip through the life of a New York City vampire and a glimpse into the poet’s own world. Today, Hell lives in East Village, New York and has successfully established himself throughout the realms of New York City art. Dressed now in rough blazers and somewhat unfashionable button-down shirts, Hell admittedly spends most of his time writing, refusing to coast on past efforts. In the 1970s, his music crafted the punk movement, creating the self-proclaimed “blank generation” and launching his name within the world of independent art; he would go on to established himself as a successful poet, novelist, actor, script writer, and even critic of both music and film. As of 2004, New York University has even recognized Hell’s significance, paying him the lump sum of $50,000 to purchase all of his writings. Yet in spite of his revolutionary music shocking appearance, Hell has proven himself as a person through both lifestyle and literature to truly embody the ethics of experimental freedom so essential to both the Symbolist poets of old, and the bohemian artists of new.

            Ask Hell what was going through his mind when crafting the insanity of The Voidoid and he’ll tell you he was “just going on nerve, unloading [his] head onto the page, trying to stay interested.”  The near stream-of-conscious nature of the book is one that would bleed over into the poetry he wrote at the time. Publishing under the nom de plume of Theresa Stern, a Puerto Rican hooker “created” by Hell and fellow musician Tom Verlaine, Hell found his way into the world of underground poetry. The two chose to don drag and superimpose their faces, giving “birth” to Stern, and would continue on under the assumed name to publish a book of poetry, Wanna Go Out?, consisting of musings over both chimpanzees and sexual frustration. From even such early literary ventures, Hell chose to make two things quite clear: he had no intentions to partake in censorship or take any approach resembling “conventional.”

            It was through this rejection of convention that Hell found himself in a place of underground prestige. When the mid-70s saw Hell growing “frustrated with the writing,” he turned to music as an outlet, looking for a wider impact, which is exactly what he got. After several semi-successful stints in bands key to New York City music, Hell formed his own band, the Voidoids, and helped to shape the face of one of music’s most controversial genres: punk. He often chose to ignore traditional phrasings and techniques within his music, instead portraying ragged emotion. On stage his drug-addled body and tattered clothes captivated audiences who saw more than just a bassist. Instead they watched with fascination as Hell yelped and howled between angular chords and jazz-like pulses. Yet while his music is what he is most well-known for, it is far from the end of his artistic exploration. Hell continued writing during these musical ventures, and his literature has since taken on a life of its own, swirling through dirt and drugs, romanticizing the disturbed. His poetry can in fact be seen as quite similar to his songs, built upon the foundations of dissonance and fragmentation. Where his stanzas are laced frantic with dashes and surreal images, his music is cut by discordant guitars and tortured delivery. Both music and poetry reveal the sporadic and anarchic nature of Richard Hell, presenting him as abrasive, messy, and articulate all within a single breath. To further intertwine his two arts, Hell has noted his continual influence from the “twisted French aestheticism of the late nineteenth century, like Rimbaud,” a sentiment which few “rock stars” can truly express, or even articulate. Such a statement works to exemplify that even Hell’s influences extend beyond those of the traditional musician, into the world of intellectual bohemia.

             Yet in spite of such a statement, what is perhaps most striking within Hell’s work is that there remains seemingly little pretention—no boundary between Hell and his audience, be they readers or listeners. “What makes his work so unique is that through the grit and vulgarity, he taps into the id of his audience,” observes Aubrey Ludwig, a teacher of poetry and prose long acquainted with Hell’s work. Such a statement holds true: much like his music, which ignored the barriers created by the concept of the rock star, his writing is presented as tangible, which in turn makes Hell himself somewhat concrete; he is no higher being, simply a poet with no fear of his audience. It’s a technique Hell has felt appropriate for his work, as he notes he has “always liked texts that directly addressed the reader.” By doing such, Hell forsakes the route of separation so often invoked by artists, instead choosing to connect with his audience on the most primal and natural of levels.

            Within his literature, such primal connections, gritty images, and surreal portraits are not without a foundation. In fact, even the debauchery-laden lifestyle he carved out in 1970s New York could be traced back in history. Unapologetically, Hell conveys his love of the French Symbolist movement, whether through his novel Godlike, narrated by a character based heavily upon poet Paul Verlaine, or through his Rimbaud-inspired hair and translations. As Hell makes clear, “part of [his] whole persona was to be shameless…[he doesn’t] hide very much,” which once again frees Hell from the artistic burden of disguising  his influences. Marvin Taylor, director of the N.Y.U. library, notes that one “can see him clearly making a connection between his work and the French symbolist poets.” Yet such is where Hell draws the line, refusing to simply rehash the ideas passed on to him from the poets of the past. “By nature, Hell would have not simply cut and pasted the ideas of Rimbaud, but used the model of poetic rebellion as a template for his own contrarian ideas,” notes French literature major and independent poet Catherine Kinniburgh. So while it is true that Hell’s “contrarian ideas” are based upon several previously established principles, to dismiss ideals as simple regurgitation would be to ignore and sell short the principles behind his approach towards art.

            That approach is one that has evolved considerably over the years, continually gaining Hell a sort of notoriety. The most intrinsic idea behind it is the sense of “shamelessness” that he brings to the table—he is honest, coarse, occasionally beautiful, and even disturbing, but never apologetic. Whether it be in terms of his influences or his final product, Hell holds back nothing, thus characterizing himself as an artist obsessed with raw reality. His words can be tender and mesmerizing before the sickening snap back into reality where he is in fact describing a scene of incest between a nephew and aunt. While Hell’s newer works, most prominently his 2006 novel Godlike, are much more focused and linear than the nearly tangential cerebral musings of The Voidoid, they retain the original sentiments found in The Voidoid of Hell’s semi-controlled chaotic thought patterns.

            Through these thought patterns, occasional insights into the poet’s life become apparent. While it is self-evident to say that any writer will inevitably draw from their own life, tracing Hell’s evolution through his own work proves to be somewhat different from that of any other author. In The Voidoid, Hell chooses to juxtapose the “narrator’s childhood…with his adulthood” by presenting first a narration from Alabama before switching to the vampire’s life in New York. Hell himself led a similar life, running away from home (Kentucky) to live in New York as a poet. Hell’s 1996 novel, Go Now, features a heroin addict struggling with journalism and rock ‘n’ roll. Think Richard Hell, circa 1977: the punk musician, the occasional rock journalist. His most recent literary venture, Godlike, presents Hell’s readers with a narrator similar to Hell himself: a middle-aged poet reflecting back upon his days in the 1970s New York poetry scene. It is with Godlike that Hell reveals the most about himself. While the plot of the book holds little resemblance to his own life (instead being based upon the romance shared between Symbolist poets Rimbaud and Verlaine), the mindset of the narrator, Paul Vaughn, is truly telling. Vaughn reflects upon his past mistakes and his losses within the novel not with regret, but with a sense of acceptance and understanding; he remains unapologetic, but is conscious of his flaws. However, despite such similarities, Hell cautions readers that “it’s not really relevant to the reader’s experience of the books…and it would also be a mistake to draw conclusions about [his] life from the books” (Hell, interview), and such stands to be true. To appreciate the work of a poet, it is not necessary to search for the poet. Yet Hell has successfully created such an aura of sometimes tangible sometimes anonymous mystique for himself that the brief glimpses into his life which he interjects through his narrators prove to be captivating.

            That Richard Hell is still alive is an anomaly in and of itself; while the days of torn t-shirts and spiked hair are gone, replaced instead with blazers and reading glasses, the abrasion and honesty so characteristic of Hell remains. He’s survived the musical movement that didn’t want to survive—he’s run away from home, from his past, beat a heroin addiction, and rafted down the Mississippi River. Yet within the highly Rimbaudian lifestyle he’s crafted, Hell has proven himself time and time again to be far more than a clone of poets since departed. Instead he has crafted his life through a body of work that remains influential and unapologetic, defying both convention and expectations.

1. The Voidoid is perhaps one of the most startling and interesting literary debuts I’ve encountered. What prompted you to take such a seemingly unstructured approach so early in your career?

I was just going on nerve, unloading my head onto the page, trying to stay interested. As I said in the afterword to the book, I was also inspired by Maldoror.

2. When I read the book, I felt there were two separate sections, which seemed to blend together almost instantly. There was the opening narrative of Alabama before transitioning into the story of Lips. Is there any relevance behind the idea that this mirrored your move / escape to New York?

More like the narrator’s childhood juxtaposed with his adulthood (or at least independence if not exactly “adulthood”, I’d reckon.

3. Certain passages within the novella use very short sentences, choppy even, commanding the reader’s actions with the use of “you.” Would you agree that there’s validity behind using fictitious prose or poetry to manipulate?

It’s just a technique I felt was consistent with the “attitude” of the book. It’s kind of arrogant and domineering, but also funny (endearing) (since it’s obviously only a book, only writing, so isn’t actually cruel or dictatorial--it needs the reader’s permission to be effective) I believe. I’d always liked texts that directly addressed the reader.

4. In promoting Go Now, you’ve stated that if you had wanted you write an autobiography, you would have. Such a statement stands, but would you say that your writing can still be interoperated as almost symbolic of your life? Theresa Stern appears in the Voidoid, and certain aspects of Lips’ life (as well as that of Billy from Go Now and both Paul and “T” from Godlike) can seemingly be traced back to you.

Sure, but it’s not really relevant to the reader’s experience of the books, or at least it doesn’t need to be to respond fully to the books. And it would also be a mistake to draw conclusions about my life from the books--much of the material in the books is completely fabricated (not drawn from my own life) and other parts that have some roots in my real life are quite distorted or rearranged in relation to the experiences that they draw on.

5. Can you tell me more about the concept of Theresa Stern? I’ve always loved the poetry “she” wrote.

Time’s up! Sorry.

6. In the Voidoid you write: “A book is best not read but remembered.” Could you elaborate upon that idea?

--Slam!
 

Whip lash; broke my spine last night. Felt my body slammed down on to
the sweat-soaked sheets and the now customary
pulsating of my heart coupled with the clammy nausea that seemed
to wake me nearly every night. I haven't slept well in what seems to be years,
but really, I know it's only been a few months. Maybe my tragic
flaw is my need to exaggerate, to take my mundane existence and break
it in two and create something grand. But this isn't an exaggeration – at least, I don't
think it is. But can I really know that? I closed my eyes. Sleep?
 

I woke up that morning. Early, but not too early; sun had still managed
to cut through the cracks in my curtain and blind me as I rolled out of bed onto
the cool floor. My sheets were damp – again. I had gotten used to it, them: the
constant dreams. Every night. Every day. The jarring sensations, the barbaric sounds of
metal raping metal; the way the glass shattered into every piece that could
ever exist and cut into me; the way the brakes were always so close but my foot could
never clamp down. I would see my body rocket through the
broken windshield, cast onto the pavement like a rag doll, laying broken
among the scattered shards.
God, now it's trickling into my waking hours too? I just can't – I gotta
get out of that. I moved into the bathroom, showered. Dull razor against sharp
skin. I cut myself shaving this morning. Again. My life keeps falling into these patterns
and I'm not sure where to go with it.
I walked back into my bedroom, water still clinging to the curve of my neck.
Was I going to live every day like this? But I had to shove that question
into the back of my mind – to question was only to give up my
being to the fear and control. So I ignored my subconscious prophesies and
dressed well. I always dress well. I'm all dolled up, with no place to go.
That's my real tragic flaw.
 

I sat down at the table and broke open a box of cereal. Something relatively
common place to start a now repetitive morning with. Outside of the apartment
I could see sunlight tracing the shadows of the city onto the pavement; and
all of the people were streaming through cafes and alleyways. It seems like I hadn't
been part of that rush for days, but in fact, I had just been out last night! Oh, God.
What am I going to do with myself?
 

Swept onto the streets, greeted the postman with our ritualistic nods and
merged into the flow of the city.
I didn't know where I was headed, but I walked with a sense of importance. Carried
myself with a sense of dignity or confidence that no one beside me could match.
I broke my stride; across the street. Who the hell is that? The way her
hair brushed her cheeks and the way her lips met into such a gentle curve.
I felt an unnatural attraction – something far beyond love, lust, curiosity. Something
that danced with the speed of life, and pulled you into such a deadly
beautiful lock that you were left gasping for breath and clinging to what
you thought may be life.
 

I had to become her; I had to die with her. Turned on my heels
and moved with her. Behind her, across from her, but near her. It struck me
that she too walked with very little apparent purpose, but held herself
in such a way as to make those outside of our field of view see her as the Godsend.
Was she really my Godsend?
Slowed near Café Casse. She entered as I waited outside. I looked through the window
and saw her take a seat with a novel. Maybe she –
Shit. And there goes my train of thought.
 

I opened the door and made my move. Towards the counter. Ordered some sort of
bullshit over the top coffee or something. Too many flavors but
I've never been that into coffee anyways.
Grabbed the "complimentary" newspaper on the way out the door;
I took a seat outside of the café. Couldn't be too close to her.
Watched her through the glass. Couldn't be too sure
but thought I saw red traces of her lipstick linger on the white edge of her
cup. What bothered me most was the fact that even as close as I was to her I
still couldn't see the title of her book; the author; I couldn't see what the barista
had scrawled on her drink. But God, she had gorgeous hands.
Stared into the center of my coffee, couldn't see my own face.
I opened up newspaper. Flipped through a few pages and as usual there
was nothing to catch my eye. To take my breath away and leave me
inspired to change the world that's slowly
killing us all off.
Jerked my head up from a story on some corporate take over; looked over to her
when it really hit me – blackout – the familiar screech, the nauseating
sensation of rocketing through your own semi-intact windshield as you
feel the shards of glass digging into your arm.
Couldn't be sure if I was whole. My body was
ripped apart and I felt ready to die. In my head I was
begging, calling, pleading, just dying for someone to take me, to
just put me out of my misery.
No one could really hear me.
The screaming made me sick.
I think I felt myself vomit onto the hood. Did it
really even matter?
Foot caught in the seat belt as I dangle through the shattered remnants,
shrieking in pain. The horn from the other
still blaring out across the shocked-silent streets, maybe this time
the frame of another caught in between our collision;
I couldn't tell – blood had rushed to my face and spurted through the cuts,
Blinding me.
 

"Hey man, you alive in there? Somebody got a phone?"
Some middle-aged man crouched over me. Slowly opened my eyes, felt the familiar
jarring sting of nausea over take my body. I was dry heaving as a small café crowd
drew around me. Whispers of 'he's awake' 'what the hell was that' 'what's going on'
resonating in my throbbing skull. The man nearest to me, whom I can
only assume found me first, turned to me.
"Buddy, what happened to ya just now? You got a condition or somethin'?"
He seemed genuinely concerned. The Saints Among the Strangers.
"I…I think I fell. That's all. Must have, hit my head or something."
The only excuse I could get out. He looked at me,
puzzled. Apparently those around him felt the same.
"I'll be fine, really," was my fall back assurance. "But, you know, thank you.
A whole lot."
Picked myself up with support on the table I had fallen next to. Knees still weak but I
could feel that it had come. And gone. And for now,
I was safe.
What the hell had I been…?
Oh God.
Where is she?
I looked frantically; glances into the café, up an down the street which had
by now returned to its normal state of affairs. Oh God.
Where is she?
She had gone. In all the commotion, she had either held no interest in the
well being of a stranger, or become part of the crowd, and just as
they all had, slipped through my fingers in my post-crash haze.
Shit.
What am I going to do with myself?

The Prince

Once upon a time, there lived a lovely prince named Marshall. And he was beautiful; handsome beyond words. His blonde locks were combed perfectly, his eyes radiated a sort of warmth which soothed his people. His chin was strong and shoulders proud. He would walk through the woods and the elk would come to him. "Marshall!" they would say. "Marshall, we need you!" and Marshall would stroke the elk.

And all were happy.

Now one day, Marshall went for his daily walk through the woods. However, upon entering the land of elk, there were no elk to be found. "Elk!" the Prince called out; but there was no response. He found it very strange, but continued on. All within a moment, he discovered what had happened to his beloved elk. There in front of him lay the mutilated bodies of dozens of elk. Guts oozing from split corpses; eyes rolled back; tongues flopped out of mouths; bones jarring through soft bloody flesh. Marshall felt his stomach grow weak – his insides began to churn and his heart began to break. But perhaps most disturbing of all was in plain view, in the center of the carnage. There, hunched over a baby's corpse was a sort of sickly looking gremlin. A creature with no discernible ears. Eyes slit and narrowed, mouth small and sharp. Its gray reptilian skin was crusting and flaking, covered in guts from its victims. It merely looked at Marshall to hiss before returning to its feast of carnage.

Marshall felt the distinct feeling of vomit hurdling from his stomach; the pop of acid in one's throat. He leaned over and let the chunks flood from his mouth, all before his feet, coating the head and carved out eye holes of an elk which lay twisted and torn before him. A small squeak of fear followed by coughing uttered from his mouth before he turned to run; the reptilian gremlin however, was too quick. Before his heels had turned, the creature had darted and dug its dirty claws into Marshall's spine, raking down trails of blood. He shrieked in a way which chilled one's bones. The creature began to tear, to rip, to revel in the bloody mess it was creating from the Prince's being. Flesh fell from the body. The Prince began growing limp as the demon skinned him, uttering only small sounds of protest when a new area was shaved of skin.

Finally, after skinning the royal child, the gremlin began to rub itself over the corpse. Cooing softly at first with subtle movements, the thrusting gradually grew more vigorous, energetic – the monster bathed itself in the corpse of the Prince. Finally, coated in blood and with bits of flesh hanging from its mouth, the thing could no longer resist. It reached down and began to stimulate a grotesque stump of a penis; it straddled the face of the dead man, thrusting and grunting. With each hip stroke, the creature's cooing grew louder, growing into a sort of dull shriek. Finally, with a sick shudder and an odor unlike any other, red slim began to slowly ooze forth from the small hard-on, mixing with the raw skinned neck and cheeks of the mangled Prince. His face, once handsome and proud, lay blood and defiled; his eyes no longer warm, but rolled back, covered in a thick red substance. The creature shuddered with relief and lay on the corpse basking in the ecstasy of such a slaughter for several minutes before proceeding to slurp forth the mixture of blood and cum it had created.

Within several hours, no trace of the Prince or his elk remained; save for one tree, which held on it a stain of red cum, easily mistakable for the blood that had coated the field only hours before.

Yeah there are some weird sentences in here. It was written as a parody of Hemingway's writing style for a contest, and I've come to enjoy some of the more awkward phrasings. I haven't decided if I want to expand or edit it yet though.    

The Furthest Table in the Furthest Corner

      Rob sat inside his cabin with a glass of wine in one hand and his head in the other. He had been on this ocean liner for nearly two weeks and left his cabin only for food and drinks. The fear of oceans and interaction kept him confined to his cot at nearly all hours. As he sat, he sipped away the last of his wine and tried to watch the last of the deep purple liquid drip into his mouth. It was fine French wine that the ship had provided. He had not bothered with the name. Setting the glass on a tray by the bed, he carefully rose and opened the door, walking onto the main deck. Numerous couples passed him as he headed for the cafeteria, holding hands and speaking of love. Rob hadn’t spoken of love in many years.

            “What will you have, sir?” the man behind the table asked him, in a heavy accent.

            “I would like a glass of wine.”

            “Would you like anything else?”

            “I would not like anything else.”

            Taking his wine, Rob sat at the furthest table in the furthest corner and sipped. He decided he would escape the confines of his cabin, if only for a moment. Besides, the furthest table in the furthest corner would surely attract no curious, socializing strangers. The cafeteria buzzed with noise, but none quite registered with him. A small gray dress caught his eye. Rob watched solemnly as a young girl began to approach his table. He diverted his eyes.

            “What’s your name?”

            “Rob.”

            “I’m Anya.”

            “Hello, Anya.”

            “May I sit down?”

            “You may sit down.”

            Rob watched the girl. She was young. Startlingly young to be alone. Maybe she wasn’t alone. The girl was the first thing to even interest Rob in the entirety of his trip.

            “Where are your parents?”    

            “Oh, my father’s in our cabin, sleeping.” So she was not alone.     

            “Where’s your mother?”

            “Oh, she died recently,” the girl told him, rather bluntly.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rob replied, sipping at his wine and casting his glance further away from the deep eyes that kept their fixed stare on his worn face.

            “You don’t look sorry.”

            “I told you I’m sorry.”

            “You’re not really sorry.”

            “No, I suppose you’re right. I don’t think I am.”

            “I don’t think you should be,” the little girl told him. “After all, you did not kill her.” To his shock, Rob found himself smiling.

            “No, I didn’t.”

            “Why are you smiling?”

            “Because my own mother is dead too.”

            “I’m sorry, Rob,” the girl told him. Rob smiled.

“Oh it’s alright, I suppose. I was seven and too weak to pull her from the tub.” The girl gasped.

            Rob only smiled.

A short story written by yours truly

TV Eyes

If you don't understand you don't understand, for there's really little more one could possibly say.

             In 1998 I was living with my fiancée, Jenna. Lemme tell you – she was gorgeous. And I don't mean pretty, I mean drop-dead-choking-on-your-own-disbelief gorgeous. The girl just kind of radiated. I'd come home from some part time summer job just to find her sitting on the couch watching TV, wearing little more than pajama pants and some over sized t-shirt. But that was enough to catch me. Every time. And she wasn't just some untouchable beauty queen. No, she was smart. She was quick; there was a certain wit about her that was dangerous, that drew you in.

             Yeah, I think it's safe to say that in 1998 I was in love.

            We lived near the edge of Pittsburg in a small apartment. Yes, we may have lived in Pittsburg, but we had everything we really needed there. We both worked (all be they pathetic) steady jobs, making enough to scrape up rent. I was a teacher's aid at school, helping Mrs. Reegert teach first graders. Jenna worked at the Sears a few blocks from the apartment. She sold mattresses or something. Regardless, I had my corner, Jenna had hers, and together we got by. Our apartment was modest; but by no means were we the rotting poor, clinging to an inescapable life. We had a kitchen and a bedroom, one bath. Good enough, you know? Every morning I'd wake up after Jenna and stumble into the kitchen, clawing at my face and trying to wake up. Whoever had the great epiphony that waking up at 6 A.M. every morning to go teach hyper active children was crazed. Sick in the head even. But I digress. I would find myself at the table with Jenna, and she, so lovingly, would be making breakfast. We would have eggs almost every morning (God could that woman cook eggs!) and watch the news. There was this one anchor, an absolute beauty! I loved watching her.
            Of course, she couldn't compare to Jenna. Could anyone really?
            It was around seven in the morning when I started my walk to school. I got there just around 7:45, which was just enough time to clean up and discuss with Mrs. Reegert what the children would be doing that day. Not that first graders do much really…aside from picking their noses. But I always make it through the day.  I love those kids.

            Eight hours of finger painting and two naps later, I was walking home. For me, nothing ever beats coming home after a long day. I was covered in specks of paint, from children who couldn't tell red from blue or the sink from the paint jar.
            "Jenna?" I opened the door. "Jenna, you there?"
            Nothing.
            There was a note on the counter:
            Nate, I'm at the gym. I'll be back later tonight. I think there's pizza in the fridge. Love, Jenna.
            Well. This is fabulous. I'm all alone all night. When Jenna's at the gym, Jenna's later going out with friends, and that means I won't be seeing her anytime soon. I lost the tie and loosened my collar. Nothing says relaxed like reheated pizza and a loose shirt.

***

            It's ten o'clock. I've been watching TV reruns and movie marathons since I got home. Where's Jenna? I don't know. Do I care anymore? Not really. She'll come home. I have food, and I have my TV. The news is on. There's that anchor woman I love. She's so beautiful. I've been sitting in this glow for hours – I haven't moved. I haven't thought, haven't spoken. The phone rang a few times. I couldn't be bothered to get up. She's gorgeous. I don't think Jenna's that great. I mean, her, she's the real prize. The warmth, the smiles. She's always been there for me; she's been here all day. God I'm in love. I don't need Jenna. Everything. I. Need. Is right here. All one thousand some channels of it. Who needs people…in fact, who needs love when you have digital cable?

            What?

            I need to get up. I've been lounging here all day. I think I'm losing it. I mean, how many hours of children's tantrums and Brady Bunch reruns can one person take? Realizing I hadn't eaten since my return home, I went for some of the pizza Jenna had mentioned. It was there, just like she said it would be. Everything's always just like Jenna says it will be. She's amazing.
            Is she? She can't be that great, I mean, where is she now? I've been waiting for hours. I sat down. Again. The TV. It's the glow. That's what I love. I have all the lights off, and there's just this warmth, this radiance, that just engulfs me. This glow that holds me so tight and never lets me go. That's love. That's what I need in life. Jenna can't give that to me – what am I going on about?! – Jenna can't. She hasn't been here for hours.
            I started to cry.
            But the TV – she held me. The anchor woman, Carol Brady, Jim Carrey, they all held me.
            I started to bawl        
            What am I doing?
            What am I doing?!
            I was on my knees. But the glow; she still held me. I was on the floor, but the glow still held me. I heard the door. Jenna saw me; that is, Jenna saw us. The TV's arms, holding me. My head pressed into her chest, crying. The TV gently kissing me, whispering to me…whispering to me…
            "Nate, what are –"
            "I don't love you!!"
            "Nate, what the he—"
            "I DON'T LOVE YOU, WOMAN!"
            I was shrieking. I was hysterical.
            "You don't love me. You can't hold me like this. You don't…you're not her!" I was raging. I was like some savage, stripped of humanity, howling to some pagan god and ripping at flesh. Jenna couldn't look at me. She was crying. I was howling. Our neighbor was banging on the wall, shouting for Jenna to "shut up that crazy jack ass."
            I pressed myself against the TV. It was warm. She held me. I felt myself slipping in…falling in. Like some wonderful dream, where the world doesn't matter and you're inside the television. Inside. And she's holding you, cooing, telling you "it's okay."
            SLAM.
            Jenna. Where's Jenna?
            She's gone. She's not. The TV. She's still here. She's still holding me. She's, she's so warm.
            "Nate, I love you Nate. You don't need her. We don't. We have, each other."
            "I…I love – I love you too."