Why I Write

by Rick Sprague

Self-realization requires mediation through an other because, without that mediation self conscious remains nothingness aware of itself as such.                   J. P. Sartre

			I'm smoking a cigarette on my roof thinking about Don; because Don is worth remembering. I'm thinking about the time at McDonald's when Don shone like a diamond, all six foot three of his athletic frame vibrated with a boy-like joy. It was a game, it was always a game with Don. He looked at people like Michael Jordan looks at a basketball.      
			 He didn't do it for meÑit was hard to tell if he even knew that I was there. He just stood there watching the cheerleaders waiting in line in front of us. His shirt draped loosely over his wide shoulders, and his baggy pants had pleats, a slight flair of excellence to match the little leather tassels that he had on his penny-loafers. Occasionally he would smack his lips as if in deep thought. His eyes shone like 100 watt bulbs. He knew when it was the right time to make his move.      
			"Do you guys know Patty Dignam? She's a soccer cheerleader at your school." Asking cheerleaders if they knew someone? Cheerleaders know everyone. That's why they're cheerleaders. They nodded yes, they had to, that was their job.       
			"Do you know the guy she's dating, Paul Krenchy? He plays soccer." Asking cheerleaders if they knew a jock? They had to answer yes.       
			At first they seemed friendly, inviting talk from this new stranga, but now they all turned and were quiet for the first time since we'd walked in.       
			It's a strange feeling when cheerleaders are quiet. One gets the feeling something isn't right. For them to be quiet means one of two things: you've been snubbedÑwhich is a common practice, to be a cheerleader means to be one of an ex-clusive club, which means you have to ex-clude some people, which doesn't mean that they only that they only have a limited number of friends, rather, it means they have enough friends to have the liberty to ex-clude whoever they want, which usually means anyone who cannot add significantly to their list of ex-clusive friendsÑbut a quiet cheerleader could be another problem as well, because being a cheerleader is not a state of being, but rather, an ideal; something that is always strived for, a goal, a perfect form, which means that those who are cheerleaders aren't very good at it because they can never "become" the ideal cheerleader, they are always caught in confusion and stress like a salmon compelled to swim to his birth place, all they have is the strange driving motivation towards this vague wish, therefore, sometimes a quiet cheerleader means confusion, a loss of direction.       
			What went wrong? Hadn't they acted in the form of the ideal cheerleader? Hadn't a well dressed, fine looking man asked them if they knew somebody that was supposed to be of the ex-clusive calibre? Hadn't they proved to the outside world that they were popular? And yet something felt wrong.       
			Something felt wrong for them, but Don was right on his mark. The shine of his eyes was now in his smile, he moved his frame quickly and with more ease. He bent into their world, (he was an extremely agile guy), to meet the downward gaze of one of the quiet cheerleaders. He had to have her eyes. Her eyes, her eyes, the most important part of the soul. He had to have her eyes when he said the next part.       
			"You don't know Patty Dignam do you." Her eyes got dark with fear which only made Don's get brighter. "I just made her up,"he laughed, "and Paul Krenchy too."       
			Don was wild with excitement now, his whole body bobbing in and out in syncopation with the avoidance of her head. He had mastered total control. "Why did you say you did?"Ñhe made his voice echo louder and louder stirring her confusionÑ"why did you say you did?"Ñ she was lost from her system and didn't have any personal strength outside of it to save herselfÑ 

"whyÑ
      ÑdidÑ          
							ÑyouÑ
											-say-
                						 ÑyouÑ
																			Ñdid?"

II
      I'm smoking a cigarette on my roof thinking of Don. I'm a writer, and writer's smoke a lot of cigarettes on the roof, thinking. I'm thinking about Don, because Don is worth remembering, a worth a story, but I don't know why Don is worth a story. As I think about him he consumes me, so much so I can't write about him. This is the paradox of being an artist. The, 'frustrated artist' as it were. A complete uncontrollable cathexis to create THIS story, and the total undeniable loss of what to say.       
			To create A story isn't enough. I have to create THIS story that remains just outside my grasp. It's a completed circle of connections in my mind that draws the outside perimeter of a zero. The void. Nothing. I can't find any loose ends to pick up and run with.       
			It was bothering me so much that earlia in the day I went to a friend's house to talk about it. Sometimes just telling a friend about what's troubling you can solve the whole damn thing. I told him about Don and how I was neurotic with inactivity. That's all I got out, because Brad went on for the next half hour talking about the American apathetic voter and the demise of the electro-college vote. Shit! That had nothing to do with why I was there. I needed to spew my soul to a friend and not only was he doing all the talking, but he was so far off the mark of my concerns that I had to make an excuse and leave before I lost my mind.       
			I came home to sit on the roof and watch the stars come out. I was so made at Brad for being so selfish as to not even listen to me. I sat and brooded for a long time, now with two problems, because the story was still caught in my throat like a hair.      
			But as stars come out we all become a little more philosophic, and I was no exception. Brad was just airing what was on his mind. He too, had a little soul spewing to do, but it meant nothing to me because it had no relation to my world. I couldn't relate to his world and I couldn't get MY world out. 

      To create just any story would mean nothing. If it doesn't relate to my world it doesn't mean anything. To just create a story would be superficial craft and would mean nothing regardless of how much praise and acclaim it gets. The Don story, for some reason was in direct connection with my world, but I can't figure out why. There is something in the story that has been very much a part of me so much so that I've always taken it for granted without ever thinking about it. I saw in Don's actions something of myself and seeing myself in another person put a new twist on what I am. But I don't know what I saw, or what kind of twist was put on it.       
			I would need another situation like Don'sÑI would have to see myself as SOMEBODY ELSE again to realize myself. I need the differentiation of another's world to reflect my world for me to see, like a mirror. Brad wasn't able to do it for me, writing a story about Don isn't able to do it for me, I would have Lo write the story about me. 


III

      Some people might say that what Don did was cruel, and I would agree with them if he hadn't looked into the girl's eyes. By looking into her eyes I knew he wasn't trying to just terrorize the girl, by looking into her eyes he was trying to find himself.      
			I went over to Brad's house to use him to see myself and got pissed off that he wouldn't reflect my thoughts. I write stories about myself in order to see my thoughts as the perspective of another person. Don saw the reflection of his life with the fear in the young girl's eyes. Could he doubt that he existed? Could he say he didn't effect the world? There it was, fear.       
			It wasn't enough for Don to know he was significant by just someone saying 'hi' to 
hlm, much the same way just to write any old story doesn't mean anything to me, or just hearing Brad talk didn't mean much to me. We all need to affect others. We all need to be reassured that we matter. We need to breakthrough the superficial and get down to the being in "human being." We need to get down deep, give ourselves over, and watch the effects to know what we gave up in the first place. We know ourselves through others.