From the wake of exhaustion I am invigorated somehow as I sit at a small cafe table, with my head leaning against the table and looking out at the sea of small tables before me. It has the feel of a quiet night though patrons are scattered about the cafe, some silent and alone and others conversing and laughing together and the whole scene feels warm like Christmas Eve. But it is only July 31.
I had a thought about ‘Saints’ earlier today while working at the shop. ‘Saints’ is the temporary name I’ve given to my novel that is so elusive and crucial leading me like a furious and determined young dog as I pursue music and acting in Los Angeles. The ‘shop’ is the shop where I work fixing cellular phones, something of a second home, my warm landing and source of income since moving west. I work with my friends and we say that we are changing the world and I believe it. The thought I had today at the shop about ‘Saints’ concerned the Mayan theories and the end of the world, and the idea developing through the novel as a point of near obsession for the hero Jude Moonlight. Jude is a young man finding his way in a world that he fears is giving up on itself, or so he believes at the end of his first journey across the country, from Gainesville through Los Angeles and into the Northwest.
He makes this journey with Calvin Corso, a wild and determined and spontaneous figure and his best friend, whose own unbound and primal spirit is a constant source of inspiration for Moonlight. Many of Jude’s closest and oldest friends call him Judey. He first catches wind of the end of the world while in Las Vegas, running round with Corso and a motorcycle gang all along Las Vegas Boulevard and into the dark and hypnotic portals of the neon-lit abyss that is the Las Vegas strip. And so resumes the story…
“Yo c’mere Moonlight,” said the gang chief to me, as the fire-eaters all glided down old Vegas, from beneath the Riviera. “This is where Thompson roamed. This is where the American Dream died.”
“No it’s not.”
“It’s not dead,” said Corso, distracted and looking off gleefully down the boulevard.
“No. It IS dead.”
“Haven’t you heard that the world is ending?” It looked Apocalyptic in front of me. All around me. The fire eaters. The glass flames. The orange neon above me.
“You’re talking about the Mayans.”
“The calendar ends. Everything will end.” He grabbed my shoulders. “Everything ends here, in the year 2012.
“That is three years from now.”
“Only three years.”
“What are you thinking?” asked a voice. What are you feeling?”
“What shall we do in that time?” asked another.
“Well I’m going to do some living before I die.”
“The last cry of humanity?”
“If we have to go out,” said Cal, “then we’ll go out right. We’ll leave this earth with a bang.”
I think about whether that is all I’ve got and if I’m depleting the well that Hemingway spoke of. He warned of keeping it maintained and making sure that there was always something left to return to. He warned me but I wanna try a different track and see what happens. So I write until I cannot write anymore.