I’m in one of those strangely nostalgic moods that only happens when you combine an extreme olfactory trigger from the past with an old CD that strikes a nerve. I’m burning a candle that smells like 1993 to me, and the CD was Rush - Counterparts. It reminds me of someone from a long time ago that I probably shouldn’t even be thinking of anymore, but I still do.

I was talking to my shrink about this on Friday. I’ve been getting through the emotions and problems of my last couple of relationships, trying to figure out where I went wrong, or if “wrong” is even the right word to use, or whatever. It would be much easier for me to say “my ex is a bitch and it’s all her fault” when I break up with someone, but they usually aren’t at fault, it’s just my reaction to the situation, or I’m at fault, or… well, whatever. The problem is, my last couple of relationships have been very long and involved, and there were many factors involved. These were people that were my friends, lovers, partners, everything, and it’s hard to pick apart the issues about what’s going on when you have so much all wrapped into one package. I don’t know if things would have been different if I never moved to New York, or if my work situation was different, or if I owned a car still, or whatever. It gets confusing fast, and it’s hard to analyze, especially when you’re still in the middle of it.

But way back when, things were different. I had a relationship that only lasted from March to October, but it still haunts me. And it’s because it was so fantasy-like in so many ways, just in the time it happened, how it all went together, how we met. There was no real-world component - it was just pure infatuation, pure fairy-tale. And then we spent the summer apart. And then school started, things wavered a bit, and then it was over.

One of the reasons this is so important to me is that it’s almost mythological. I was depressed as hell, and this innocent little 18 year old wandered into my life like a puppy dog, and we were in love. It ran its course, it hit the ground, and it was over. It was like when they take a brand new car and smash it into a wall. There are no other factors to consider, like tire wear or a drunk driver - it’s just the car and the wall. And that’s what this is, because when it was over, I couldn’t reason with it in any logical matter, or place blame. I was forced to feel loss. And for a guy who has spent his whole life using logic to avoid feeling loss, that’s a major fucking beating.

So here I am, in New York City, 7 years later. I don’t even remember what her voice sounds like. I can barely remember what she looks like. The idea of being close to her - or anybody - seems so remote to me. I’ve been in two relationships that, combined, lasted five times longer than the time I spent with her. Yet it still bugs me. I don’t obsess about her every day - I’ve got enough shit in my life going on. But it seems like I’d be able to forget her and move on with life.

I think part of it is that I think I will somehow repeat what I had with her, but make it all happen right again. I’m convinced that I made a couple of dumb little mistakes, and if I meet her again, the 30-something version of her, and I don’t fuck up, I will have the perfect woman and I’ll do everything right. I think every relationship I’ve had since, every first date and failed encounter has started with some sick fantasy that this woman would be as perfect as her. Not that she was a supermodel or anything - I mean that everything would dovetail nicely; that we would be a nice match and the atomsphere would be incredible and everything else.

It’s silly for me to continue this discussion, because I’m not going to say that wanting something spectacular is a bad thing, and I’m not going to say it’s helping me out, either. I guess that’s the rub. Either I’ll figure this out someday, or I will be in the right place at the right time again.

Not much else. Time to go to bed.

I feel a need to update, even though not a lot’s going on. Saturday afternoon - no plans, a few bucks, and so-so weather. I went out late last night to Kiev, to eat some food that I probably shouldn’t have. I have been passively drifting on some kind of diet thing, but it’s more like I’ve just been feeling more guilty about eating bad, and avoiding snacks. I tried to get on diet Dr. Pepper this week, but my allegiance to The Real Thing is too heavy, and I was back to six Cokes a day by Friday. I’ve also been trying to take more late-night walks through the ‘hood, but it’s been raining all week, and spending an hour and a half walking around is kinking the Rumored to Exist writing schedule.

I haven’t been doing much writing, but I read a lot of Rumored in the last few days, and I still really like it. I can’t wait until it’s 100% and I can start showing it to my friends and stuff, because it is very tripped out and the current draft is very tight. I still have some stuff to fix up, there’s some slop in the language and some of the references are too far out for anyone but me and maybe Ray Miller.

I registered allhailsatan.com this week. It points to my home machine. Not much located there, but maybe later I can use it for some weird project.

Okay, I need to get dressed, catch some lunch, do something cool. I’m thinking of the Strand, but spending money might not be the best idea at this point. We’ll see what goes down.

Okay, I’m calmed down now.

The good news is that my book has an ISBN number. Forevermore, Summer Rain by Jon Konrath will be known as 0-595-13494-7. And that is cool. I feel very legitimate now. I just wish I didn’t have another 2-3 month wait until the thing was in my hands.

It’s pouring rain. I’m listening to the Peter Gabriel - Secret World Live album, which makes the subwoofer sound incredible. I also went through the Dolby Digital test disk tonight, which has some cool trailers, but is way too damn short for $15. But it really shakes the rafters, especially the ‘City’ and ‘Rain’ demo trailers.

Okay, nothing else. I need to finish dinner and write a book.

I don’t think I’ve ever been awake this early on a Sunday morning, unless I was still trying to make it home from a Saturday night out. Even back when I was a kid and my mom used to drag me to church, there was an 11

mass. But I went to bed early, and I’ve vowed to get something done today, so here I am.

I started working on Rumored again last night. It’s tough - I have a lot of little ideas, fragments, but I can’t string them together so they flow well. I’m going to keep struggling with it, in hopes that it will fall into place better or maybe the stuff that I’m doing now is somehow editable at a later date. I’m trying not to throw out anything, because I’m eventually able to twist it around and come up with something more functional. It feels good to at least be thinking about this.

Not much to report here. Yesterday was a quiet day; went to the mall in Jersey City, which was probably a mistake. There are too many people and not enough good stores there, but it’s the only mall-type mall around here, unless you go to Staten Island. I wanted my Midwest fix, but didn’t really get it. The train rides were okay though - air conditioning is always a plus. I almost saw X-Men again, but decided I didn’t want to kill half the evening on it.

I think I’m going back to bed.

It’s a beautiful day out, and I woke up early, and I have a wad of cash in my pocket I can spend on anything, but I’m sick. My stomach’s bothering me, and I really want to go eat something bad, a pile of fried pierogies with sour cream or a plate of greasy hash browns and some fried eggs, but I don’t think that will happen. I hate this stomach stuff, and it’s been happening pretty much constantly for the last few weeks. I’m hoping it’s just stress, but maybe it’s a warning sign that I should be paying attention to some of the other problems in my life.

I should be working on Rumored. Marie loaned me this book (and I don’t remember the author or title) and I started reading it last night, and it reminded me exactly of what I wanted to write like. I stopped reading after about three pages because I didn’t want to subliminally rip off this dude when I got back on my own writing. It got me motivated to at least think about Rumored for a while.

The problem is getting some momentum going, to sustain it. I need to figure out the process, how I can get back to writing every night and return to that sweet spot where I can produce golden prose for three hours a night. With Summer Rain, there was this entire process, pages of notes and outlines, the music, the food I ate, the smells I smelled, that pushed me into that creative zone where I could recreate the past with words. A glass of cold Coke, a compilation tape of my favorite songs from that era, and I would be able to work. The problem with Rumored is that I’ve sometimes found that zone, but it’s so difficult. I can get so distracted by music - it needs to motivate me, but it can’t pull me away. It’s difficult to describe, but the setting has to be just right. And I haven’t found that magic combination yet.

Maybe I need to buy a new desk. I don’t know.

I’m also not in the mood where Rumored is always in my head. I need to think of ideas all day long and then write them down. The Palm Pilot is nice for that, but it doesn’t happen enough. I spend my days daydreaming about stupid shit, not thinking about the book. The book needs to be my daydream. When I worked on Summer Rain, it was easy to drift back to 1992, to replay those memories and fantasies and get far too sentimental about old flames and distant days. Then when I checked in every night and sat down at the computer to pound out another chapter or whatever, it was easy to really get into it. I haven’t been doing that now, and I need to.

There was a period in 1998, between Karena and when I met Marie, where I was 100% gung-ho about Rumored. I think it was back when Fear and Loathing was in the theatres and I was watching it constantly and never sleeping and pushing myself with tons of Coke and low-grade speed and food from Denny’s and hanging in this freaked-out state where I was the book, where I ran through reality like a machine gun firing at everything 72 times a second. I wrote a lot of fucked-up stuff back then, stuff that still makes me laugh out loud. I didn’t give a fuck about my job, and I wasn’t a technical writer by trade - I was me, writing. It was a good time, but it didn’t last for long. No heavy reasons, I just couldn’t sustain it.

I have been sober for seven months today. The medicine I just took for my stomach is .5% alcohol, but I don’t think that counts. Besides, it didn’t make me want to run to the nearest bar and get loaded. I could barely keep the stuff down - it tasted like fucking turpentine.

Okay, at the very least, I need to go to the bagel shop on 30th Ave and get something for lunch. Go visit the book site if you haven’t already, dammit.