My name's Jack and I'm a writer.
What does that mean? Every morning I wake up
with the writing roaring in my head. I must still the voices.
I spring to the easel. One of Picasso's mistresses said, "Pah, artists--
it's in and out and back to work." That's true. Work is my addiction.
It isn't work if you enjoy doing it so much. It's play. Divine foolishness.
I don't like to call it obsessive-compulsive. That takes away the deliberate element.
I made myself this way. I crafted myself. I am a work in progress, and the progress
is mostly counterintuitive. Away from the usual rewards and towards what most people
would consider punishment. I'm like a Plains Indian contrary. I see everything
backwards. To me, success is failure. Failure is success. By that measure
I am the champion, but I'm the captain of, as Emerson said
of Thoreau, a huckleberry party. The ant's a centaur
in his dragon world. Thoreau's journal.
Kierkegaard's journal. The ravings of
a maniac. Jack the raver.