That which follows is the (let’s call it) G-rated part of a work of otherwise often X-rated fiction. No harm is at stake, simply stated, what follows involves my own way of making it through difficult times as quickly as I must, through writing therapy, rather prewriting for my Alibiography book series. There have been but two unanswered questions literally within the literature: a) How to “kill off” Georgie and b) how Jonathan (me, myself, the author i.e. “Ben”) will have eventually, if ever will have synthesized with Ben, or not. The unmentioned loss I happened to encounter professionally caused me to what? It caused me to jump the fuck up leaping onto the keyboard under the sounds of Trent Renzor’s electric thunder in Intriguing Possibilities. And so I still sit. Sitting still with my speakers blaring loud as bloody hell. Calmly, perhaps, I stumble upon the well-awaited-since-2006 finale to the trilogy or deuce of the Alibi or Alibiography series with special thanks to the infamous editor who screwed me over for the last time creating a symptomology more severe than ever. I get through. Art saves lives. At least mine.
“Jonathan, are you asleep? I know your loss must have really hit you hard as you posted online to you readers. I am concerned. I love you and I want you safe,” emails Kelly, “I understand your publisher pulled out as did your editor. Perhaps it may be time to just publish Banality as the final book, perhaps? Perhaps?” (It rings in my head, “perhaps . . . ”) “Put it up it up as it is,” Kelly advises in my mind, in my head, so it can’t authentically be written in the second person, this is third person stream thought, not action, so let’s keep this real . . . “But I can certainly help with the leftovers. I can help.” Blog it, taste it, smell it. Can you smell it, Ben? Can you see it? Can you visualize it? It can be done. It, rather you are the story, Ben, Jonathan, you are the book, and the series and you can reach your own climactic conclusion, right now and straight away, as you like it. It might be good for you. Again, I love you, Jonathan, I love you Ben. I love you Jonathan,” she reminds me writing me electronically from next door while I’m still here, wherever I am, in New Mexico at least and at last, far, far away from California, finally. This is my reply and thus my end:
Ben comes to realization, a realization as it pertains to his Second Alibi: The Banality of Life. . . as it pertains to who he is after all. Who he really and truly is, and whom everybody has likely known all along. Underneath the wreckage Claudia has imposed, for example, it all comes down to but a simple short and sweet story after all. Not much to it. He is who he is, Georgie. And Ben is not asleep, (neither am I) . . . I, Jonathan, am pulling through the wreckage the professionals left behind. An intrusive but immaculate final fantasy, or thought pounces on Ben, on me, Jonathan:
Genuine enlightenment even in its own banality, it should never be bought or sold and therefore to hell with china white, and thank the Lord Ben can’t even find his way around the block to score any more drugs where Georgie lives due his pathology, for being a schizophrenic. The same goes for Ben as it does for Georgie. He’d (Who? Georgie . . .) arranged with my help years ago for all his antipsychotic medications to be locked in secure safe might he ever find his way to break into Fort Knox. God forbid he was to relapse nearly 12 years after sobering up from heroin, crack cocaine, PCP, and booze. Drugs as such, and suicide, are indeed available for such unmentionably petty knee jerk reactions like the whiney crybaby little bee sting of being free after all. That’s what it boils down to, smaller anxieties are all the same in his sordid colorless life; they blow up in Ben’s book but rather onto a free-to-see peep show of a blog, a free read illuminating the genius of his mentally ill mind, his life, and mine would blow up if it wasn’t for my role of being his creator, as the author, as Ben himself, as Jonathan, in the flesh and forever so. He is, rather I’m the one. I’m still just a trapped little literary device. Georgie takes care of me and I, Ben, take care of him. We love our beloved Georgie and we love our belated Ben, after all. Most certainly Ben has meant it when he says it’s mater of fact that the publisher’s petty little bee stings blow up like the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, especially with his hefty dose of some good old fashioned and severe complex PTSD. If not, he’d be fictionalizing a bonafide smoke, a pure once-in-his-lifetime 60 mg hit of DMT enabling his long after due, short-lived but greatest 20 minutes of his life, and thus mine. Dr C has always asked how I would ultimately end Georgie’s life as a literary device and my answer is in therapy, writing therapy that is. See, once Georgie’s 20 minutes of bliss is up, there’s no action, he simply inhaled the drug, the full blown DMT, so just use your imagination of what his experience is like while I write, that he wouldn’t be able to function or feel any pain, any longer and so neither would I. It’s why I write the Alibis and speak to the cameras which record him to prove the cause of our deaths, as one, Georgie’s cause of death, Ben’s cause and my own death, our literary deaths, together as one. A full-blown fictionalized mass mental suicide. Georgie Gust’s heart will simply give out within a minute or so left (check the timer . . . tick—tick—tick). His psychedelic highest of highs flies in the background. My heart opens—wide open, finally, and at last, spreading its wings and doing the happy dance of letting go, truly letting go. Letting the whole story go. Long live Georgie! Enter at last Jonathan Harnisch, who lives on and on and on. And so on. As for Claudia and the others, well, to hell with them. I think our job is done here, back to Kevin at Gold hand, no fuck Kevin at Gold Hand and the ultimate early release of Second Alibi, for the serialized fiction has reached its climactic finale, finally so now I may type, as I win, the joy of life, “a la fin de l’envoi, je touché!”
May I continue to live long and prosperously, as it’s sometimes said, here he is at last! At last! He has arrived. I am and will always be Jonathan.
Purchase Jonathan Harnisch's "Second Alibi: The Banality of Life" on Amazon