For the past year five years I have been working on a memoir, and now re-reading it, who cares? I can't imagine a reader caring, and I don't even care. The fact that I just completed 54,000 words on the day I was born is... well egotistical. To sit at my desk in front of a computer or two, for six hours a day, to just focus on only me, and how "me' is so important to..."me," is really too much. Not to sound egotistical I tried to write about people around me, that actually made "me" a better or interesting person. But after studying the facts, and looking at various photo albums, I came to the conclusion that "me" is not really that interesting.
The opening sentence to the memoir "The world changed when Tosh was born on August 25, 1954, " strikes me a bit strong. But it took me around five years, and I know this because I kept a detailed journal basically focusing on my feelings. Eventually I got to the next sentence. Once I got there, I found myself that I couldn't stop writing. Page after page came by, in a manner of an Orson Welles montage. But alas, the writing and subject was and is shit.
I stopped writing, and basically listened to a lot of Robert Wyatt records. His voice convey a comfort zone for me that no other singer can bring to me. Often I like to watch silent Ernst Lubitsch films with Wyatt as its soundtrack. It shouldn't work, but it works for me. I came to the conclusion that this memoir doesn't work as a piece of literature. But maybe as an art object or art piece?
The manuscript as of now, which again, focuses pretty much on the day I was born, runs to 104 typed pages. I decided to print out the manuscript, put each page in a decorative picture frame (can get it at the local drug store cheaply) and sign each paper. The work can only be sold separately, and I will charge $150 for each framed page. This will come to around $15,600, but I am not sure about the expenses of typing paper and the frames. Maybe it should be a tad more expensive?
The project is already a pain-in-the-neck, due that I have to go to various CVS outlets to purchase 104 picture frames. For a minute I was thinking maybe I should get custom made frames? But the work inside those frames are shit, so why purchase something more expensive for shit?
I finally gather all the cheap shitty frames, and spent a day and a half putting each page of the manuscript within these frames. I decided the best thing to do was have an exhibition at my house, so I had to remove works by Marcel Broodthaers, Jackson Pollock and Alice Neel off my walls to replace them with my crap.
I didn't want to waste time with riffraff, so I put a sign on my front door that admission is $150 and with that you get a free piece of artwork from yours truly. Which of course is a page of my manuscript not that nicely framed. Nevertheless business was terrible, and now I have this inventory on my wall that reminds me consistently of my failure.