UNIVERSE/RUNNETH OVER

Steven Green

The photo on the left was taken on Christmas, 2006; the photo on the right 7 years ago. If you were to crop the head of the left picture, and paste it onto the body of the right--except leaner--you would have an accurate picture of me to date. Although you might infer an incongruence with that picture, and my age(54) - there isn’t one; no duplicity, no embellishments, just exercise and some weird genes.

The reason I am so emphatic that you have an overall clear physical description, isn’t just vanity--albeit, I concede that also- -I’ve experienced. If I have a good image of the person in my mind, it enhances a certain affinity/intimacy for me with that person’s writing.

Hopefully you’ll experience that with my writing, because when you read some of the shit that’s coming out of my head, it’s good to have a visual.

There’s always, at the least, an underlying austere inimical presence in prison, which I assume there’s supposed to be. I mean I get it, it’s f--king prison for God’s sake.

Compound the fact that I’m egregious from my fellow convicts, (i.e.): I don’t have tattoos or belong to a gang, and I compulsively correct other inmates flagrant errors in grammar. *Note: this last action is not conducive to making friends in prison, take my word for this. Isolated, alone in this stark place, I find this a good setting to let my imagination roll--Unchecked--; Reality being something I have a tenuous grip on at best. Often times when I’m very bored, I’ll amuse myself by sliding into my own fantasy world--Big surprise there-- sometimes I pretend I’ve joined a (this part’s ambiguous), monastic order, renouncing my hedonistic lifestyle, leading a humble (this is real fantasy) ascetic existence, void of the destructive elements of materialism and carnality. This being ambient--not having shit-- towards the focus of my essence in consummation with the Oneness of All-- oh yes, f--k me 7 ways Running Grasshopper!

But damn, I find that even I, one on the very precipice of sanity, have trouble wrapping my demented head around this Bull-Shit. I mean, it’s kind of hard doing any kind of transcending (*objective: By renouncing women--and some other stuff--in hopes I can at least transcend some place where they have some pseudo/spirit women) when your fellow acolytes have an extremely bellicose demeanor, with a strong proclivity toward aimless violence. That kind of shit really detracts from the whole ”Harmony With Universe ” stuff.

Some friends have stated I’ve propagated this--verbose, pedantic, wordy shit--to a new level, reminding me that certain literature has always been a little suggestive for me (Euphemism for: I start taking on certain traits of authors and protagonists for a while), that maybe I ought to back off the Proust & Faulkner a bit. My shit’s sounding way to ”Proustain” and archaic.

The whole Proustain thing is pretty cool I think, well maybe only if you’re a little French Gay guy, born over a century ago into Paris’ bourgeois society, and have a propensity to lock yourself in your apartment for let’s say, a decade or two. I really don’t fit that profile, but I did lock myself up in an apartment for a month, shooting coke once. It’s a good thing I wasn’t reading Proust at the time; It’s that type of way-out, suggestive ideology stuff that will push you right over the edge into cocaine psychosis. To this day, I could have been caught in a Psychotic loop, trying to pick up stray men, talking with a bad French accent.

I encourage any correspondence, but please keep in mind, I am not gay, I am straight, and am already getting a superfluous amount of male camaraderie in here, ”My Cup Runneth Over”!