Remember when Pulp Fiction went by the 1st time & Travolta died, and then reappeared as if he didn’t get cut in half by Bruce Willis’ machine gun(well, it was Johnny’s machine gun till Bruce picked it up..)? It was like, wtf just happened??..

Ohh I get it, this movie presented it’s chapters in a 1-3-2 sequence.. Ok, is that brilliant, or is it just Quentin being avant-garde?

Prolly the latter..

Whatever, it was his movie, and he finally was on the map so, “Bully for that nigga…” (S. Jackson in ‘Jackie Brown’)

What I’m going to finally post here is chapter 2 from something I wrote down 15+ years ago I had called the ‘Trilogy of Terror’ which was a 3 part reflection on Donna and the month of May as the years were going by..

What finally pushed me off the cliff was an unexpected chat w/my buddy Miguel at the Japanese spot I frequent about Donna, whom he’d never known about (at least not in any detail). So,… it hurt comin home… I was feeling some very deep bruises that were avoided for the most part last month due to the injury that substantially kept my focus on physical pain management for the better part of 2 1/2 weeks, and not emotional, heartfelt variety.

Some stories you can only tell a certain way,.. only with detail and conviction, even if you can keep channeling the return to the moments that destroyed you ultimately at bay, which I did quite well up until the very end.. The very end it snuck through and I trembled a bit in reflection of my worst tragedy. You hop in the truck at 1 a.m. on those dark streets to head home and you get crushed a little bit, even after 20 years of obliteration and hardening of every layer of your hearts tissue.. No matter how far gone you were or how hard things have become, your eyes are still going to water because you still love her, and she’s still dead…

Let this entry be a potential spring board back into sharing stories,…. I never write/punch the keys when I’m happy and I need to come to terms with that and to terms with not worrying about what any of you think/feel about that. People want to read, even if it’s nothing… If someone were to write 40 years of nothing but a mundane existence, it would be fascinating/riveting in it’s own right.. And yet here I hem & haw about sharing a life of ONLY high & low in fears that I won’t write anything worth remembering. I shouldn’t care, I know that.

But I’m caught in between caring and not… I’ve been stuck there for 20 years.

The journey backwards into horror begins soon, but not tonight since the toll will poison me for days as I’ll drink everything in sight should I choose to tussle with the demon who penned my life’s most cruel act…. Not tonight, but soon.

No more from the middle, only from a slighted angle. Only sharp edges and pointed ends. Barbed-wire & belt-sanders.

Soon…. I promise.  ~ T. von