Sometime Heap called himself, or was called, Streak.
He had a wild streak. A crazy streak.
He had a streak
going. He had written 375 books without
selling one to
How long could he keep it up?
Would he finish writing 40-Year Run? Would he seize up and keel over, in front of his computer monitor? Would he just stop writing, like Thelonious Monk stopped playing music?
That was the drama of it.
He watched a movie called Facing Ali. All those old heavyweights who fought Ali.
They didn’t interview Jerry Quarry. He was punch drunk.
Sometimes a fuse blows, or the system wears out and shuts down.
They didn’t interview Muhammad Ali. He has Parkinson’s disease.
You don’t get dementia pugilistica sitting in an executive office chair, typing.
I worked at hard physical labor for maybe half of my work life. I can’t make a fist. Both hands are useless. I can’t open a pickle jar. From manual labor.
My liver is shot, from the drinking.
I’m starting to get memory loss.
I get a little down from time to time.
Unremitting rejection takes its toll.
I worry more than
I should. That’s taxing on a person. We’re one emergency away from disaster. And both driving clapped-out
I am basically frightened.
I try to be brave. I soldier on.
But I don’t see a happy ending.
I’m a whiner.
Just another whiner.
Jesse Bernstein committed suicide with a broken beer bottle.