Excerpt 2: A Transit Diary, of Sorts

by Nate Simpson
[undated] – Does he ever know what he’s talking about?

19 July - My chest feels like it's on fire right along the sternum in line with my chin and I imagine the right half is light and free and full of the breath of the forest field and stream and the damp earth but at that midpoint the flail chest gives evidence to the life in the right side and illness and decay on the left it barely rising and rasping throughout its full cycle while within its dark cavity contains a lobe of undefined volume and smooth wet texture sticky to the touch and cold as though it inhales nothing from the external and respires nothing to the external and tenderly from the side of life and breath and that which is familiar I pass under that boundary of fire which forces a queer spirit upon my nature and a darkness further slips upon me and it’s funny that in this moment I have the paper the pen the want of writing but I am stuck here on the streetcar incapable of thought or idea worth inking I am stuck between poles of poetry’s minimal but strategic words or prose’s refined thoughts more developed notions and characters more whole and I wish I had my smaller scratch-book today as there are too many people looking over my shoulder on the 503 streetcar at Carroll Street where there is usually an exodus for the westbound Queen cars but not today as we angle off of from near the animal shelter where I picked up Duke those many years ago onto King Street we are bound to pick up more passengers more people that look at me and wonder what I’m doing more people that look over my shoulder at my writing which makes skin crawl just under the surface with wriggly black ant larvae and I don’t need this now as I’m on my way to the g.d. shrink.


10 Aug - All I want is for someone to relieve me relieve me relieve me from these fucking visions that make me want to gouge my own eyes with a spear a knife a stick a finger or with whatever I can lay my hands on and with that done cleave my nose from its mount render my ears deaf and dissolve my tongue oh my mind races with all such thoughts but I don’t want you to be disappointed with me when you find that I’ve taken this sweet sweet sugar yes let’s call it sugar.

Excerpt: A Transit Diary, of Sorts

by Nate Simpson
28 October – The next 90 days were worse than the 90 before and I do not know when or how relief will come, if ever, if ever it is just all, all, all too much the faces again during the stupid times of the day, opening the ‘fridge and out of the corner of my eye a face appears in the window near the table. It’s always in the window and at a certain point I’m not sure it’s anyone else’s face but mine, but it can’t be – it just can’t be because the face is…


05 December – And we’re at the station where the darker skins go east, the lighter and whiter go west and I stand here still on the platform, pulled and drawn by the charge and retreat of the subway cars. The dust, dirt, papers and the trash standing with me are similarly pulled and drawn with the piston of the subway cars.

15 December – Walking into the station, that prick in the fucking suit looked into the air above our heads; as though the answers to all of life’s questions were just hanging there and only he could see them.

15 May – “I just can’t take it anymore it’s too tiring, too much, these circles, circular discussions going, like, fucking nowhere! [pause] But, I like the way she dances. Fuck me! All day she’s there in my mind, all fuckin’ day. What do you think that means? How do I know, it’s why I’m here isn’t it? Well, not at first. Oh, ya. But why does it matter anyway, it’s all circles, circles, circles. That’s it, I’m done. Sorry, Michael. You know this is a mandatory program. A condition of your release. We’re not done until the hour is up.”

Author Profile: Jeffrey Paul Dore

Jeffrey Paul Dore is a writer, well, hopefully. With a strong appreciation of how visual images conveyed emotional experiences, film was an obvious choice. Many scripts and films later, branching out into writing novels seemed a natural progression. We’ll see where this all leads. Paul's blog of stories – both real and imagined – can be found at Contradiction of Logic and follow him @jeffreypauldore.