Publishing Was Dark

I was living in NYC when the Mineshaft opened. I am a chronicler of wet people from the rain and soaked and traveling with you is dangerous, but that was when I was dangerous, too. The cab has to be slick, new, and as yellow as Baby Duck Shampoo. The driver did not ask us for our destination. The driver just knew. I do not write about weapons on the subway because I do not write about weapons on the subway. Don’t ask. You walk up a long stairway and prove you were not a cop because the cop room was for cops. I do not like billy clubs anywhere around me.

I wrote the book, Mineshaft in one long snowy night of cheap thrills and, pills.

Even the light was evasive.

That novel has sold over 100,000 copies. At the top of those stairs, there was the blond door boy. Who really did check you over. Why would I carry drugs, and Mommy taught me drugs are bad. There is no answer to this question. I am asked: What was the Mineshaft. I have to stare at the blond door boy (he needed a pick me up) as he licked my spoon. Hi, blond door boy let us in.

And so he did.

A maze of shadows and fetishes.

Sex is still a political act. Only this time, the Breeders win. It’s called revenge.

The Mineshaft is the past.

I ran into famous men. Best forgotten. I like living.

The Mineshaft is not forgotten by anyone who sailed past that place alongside meatpacking loading docks  that smelled like meat. The roof of the Mineshaft took your breath away. It was a light show of instruments and discourse. Deals as to what would happen next were negotiated on the roof just like the rest of us on roofs in the dark and just drink it all in.

Cowboys and spurs. Especially the spurs. Gin and spurs. It’s about the hat. 

The cold of the spurs flashed blue glinting at a disappearance in less than a second. A flash on hash full fathom five. A neutrino zipping through your eyes of haze and crystal daze, your eyes never knew it was there.

I took notes. Taking notes was another political act. It’s intimidating. But I take them anyway because I’m autistic. Minutia Make Your Point. Most people just watched and none of them were taking notes. For me, it’s about the cab. Cab To The Mineshaft would be a challenge to write. But I think. It has to be the right shade of yellow, the kind that almost rain, but no pouring rain. A rain of falling snakes. In fact, the whole thing begins when I see that the yellow of the cab is correct. I will often make him drive (slowly) past Holly Golightly’s apartment. It rains there, too.  After the Mineshaft, you had breakfast in a cab. Cab coffee is a godsend. – tim barrus