My city.

Yes I saw The Spirit and that's part of the reason I'm writing this. But mostly this has been a long time coming.

Las Vegas. My city. I love this place. Everyone who isn't here is flying in nightly by the thousands. And everyone who is here is spreading away from here like rats off a sinking ship. Me, I love this town. No place is as alive. No place is as infinitely complex in its mechanisms. This town is every artists dream. A city so riddled with love, sin, hate, decay and glamor. Think about it. It's a city built in the middle of a desert, thriving off the losses of thousands of people. But it's also a city in the middle of the desert thriving in the glow of thousands of both physical and metaphorical light. From miles away you can see it silently humming to itself, it's glow cast into the sky. Every person a book unto themselves. The original voice of Tarzan sitting with his wife in a smoky dive casino diner. Strippers just out of high school who know more about the economic crisis than business majors. Elegant graffiti tucked inside its underground chasms. This city is the greatest subject no one will every really capture.

It's kind of unsettling...

that "House of Leaves" is actually kind of getting to me. I can't sleep, and I can't be awake. It's odd. I keep thinking about the book, looking things up that it references. Thinking about what some of the passages are talking about. Refusing to skip over the more annoying bits of text to get to the meatier discussions of the actual house.

I find myself wondering about my old ideas of "___________". I used to write bits of fiction on that idea. That there is ___________________________. And that _______________________________________. _________________________________________. ____________________________________________. It is actually hard for me to write this down and publish it. This idea of mine is really one of the things I truly cherish. Not many people know about it. In fact, I am sorry to tell you (you already know this by now), I'm going to replace my idea with a big blank space to protect it.

But yes. This book is seriously getting to me. Hell, who knows, maybe It's not "getting to me" maybe I'm just letting something that's been lurking inside finally show itself.

What is this thing? Me being a bit crazier than I let on? Probably. Maybe not.

Ah well. Maybe I'll take up writing again. Finish that short story about "________________". In fact maybe I'll pick up that other story and finish it. If it's bad it's bad you know? The worst that could happen is that it gets passed over and forgotten. The best? Someone likes it, I suppose that'd be the best. Simply having it out of my head and on paper in concrete form would be good. (Mostly because I don't trust my own mind to hold onto ideas forever. In fact I have the unsettling belief that my mind will lose it soon if I don't get it down.)

Hell, maybe I could put a book together. Some photography. Those old short stories. Maybe even a poem. It wouldn't get published. Something that abstract and, (What's the word?) experimental needs a big name to actually draw a moderately sized crowd. However. If anyone knows a publisher willing to put out an experimental style publication direct them my way. Or direct me their way. Whichever.

It's 4:30. I need to stop doing this.