Notes From the Underground — 17

Dearest All, 

I send you this note from the very center of St. Petersburg, ripe city of riveting ideas and transformation. Behind me you'll see the grand Winter Palace, the Alexander Column and an arch with large horses and a chariot upon it, a Russian tradition I have found to be quite exhilarating. I should think a chariot and horses improves just about anything one attaches them to. I have made a note to incorporate this into my professional life. I believe it has the potential to improve my image drastically. 

I have concealed my Manifesto De Nude among the human's things, and plan to slip it into a place of honor amoung the treasures of the Hermitage Museum. Great men do not wait for idle publishers to recognize their work. They thrust it into the world, and let it live in glorious infamy, rippling through the ages. 

Oh, such dreams have I, such grand, grand dreams. 

Under no delusions, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 16

Dear What's Your Faces, 

I have found new confidence at the outskirts of Moscow's Prospect Mir, where tributes to greatness abound. I feel as if destiny has led me to this place. I can't help but notice that I resemble a certain gentleman widely celebrated by statuary in this grand country. In fact if I donned an overcoat and cap I think these fine tourists may mistake me for the founder of the Bolsheviks himself. 

I should hate to confuse them. I will remain nude.  

In the mean time, as the Georgia Review reconsiders that which they first cast aside, I have begun work on a manifesto. This may surprise you, as it's a break from my usual intellectual humility. But I find that it's time to shed the cloth of my creative uniformity, and share the true depths of my heart. 

Cloistered no more, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 15

Dear Followers, 

Today I received correspondence from the Georgia Review in the form of electronic mail. It was less than satisfactory. If my epic poetry is "derivitive," if my voice is "pompous" and "confusing," then I'm a G.I. Joe. (To be clear, I look nothing like Joe, and my epic verse is exquisite.)  

I shall retire now to this place of God, nestled at the edge of Moscow, to pray for Stephen Corey and his journal. He needs my support now more than ever. As his name is emblazoned upon my flesh, I fail to understand how he could forsake me now. I fear for him.

With great piety, 

Naked Man

P.S. — I was asked to leave the church shortly after entering. Something about proper attire. But I remain devoted to both my spiritual journey and saving the G. Review from certain peril. 

Notes From the Underground — 14

Dear Far Flung Friends,

I write to you from the top of a sky scraper, overlooking Moscow's famous Arbat Street. The human bid me balance precariously on this edge, seeming to value my safety less than a menial photo opportunity. She vexes me to the highest degree. 

As I await news from the esteemed editors at the Georgia Review, I am looking for love in the busy streets of Moscow. I have already dated several matrioshka dolls, and find them to be incredibly engaging and mystifying creatures. Just when you think you've gotten to know them, you discover an entire other layer, more complex and delicate than the one previous. It is a delight. 

Na zdrovye,

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 13

Dear Brothers and Sisters in Turmoil,

My writing has taken a turn for the fantastic. This last day upon the train has catapulted me into a vortex of epic storytelling that both inspires and terrifies me. As I careen across the Russian countryside, I travel even deeper into the grand and caustic territories of my soul. It is glorious. My calisthenics are paying off as well, as many hours grappling with The Pen is taxing to say the least. 

The human has been face down on the bunk for hours now. May she stir no more. Meanwhile, I leave you with this visage of my creative output. I intend to put the finishing touches on it tonight, and ship it express to the Georgia Review. 

With a sense of near accomplishment, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 12

Dear Ones,

Ere the dawn of day breaks night darkness

And finds me moving swift across the Asian continent

The soul demands of the body constant movement

Within movement. And thus begins a new routine

A round of calesthenics to greet the day by. 

Feet fastened quick to carriage netting

I will lift myself toward the heavens one thousand times.

Heart quickening, abdominals thickening, 

En route to Moscow with a slick sheen of ambition,

The rails and my spirit quest a single hot line. 

With fervent inspiration, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 11

Dear Loyal Few,

After the destruction of my novel, and my subsequent mourning period, I could stay in Listvyanka no longer. I have boarded a train on the infamous Trans-Siberian Railway, and will make tracks for Moscow, and the stomping grounds of Pushkin, Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. 

I also wanted to partake in a traditional Russian banya, hoping that scalding water and a merciless beating by birch branch would cleanse my ragged soul. I saw that they had great vats of hot water on the train just for this purpose, and called for a session immediately. It was a disappointment, however, since obviously these baths were not built for someone of my magnificient stature. 

The ever present Coca-Cola bottle was a fortuitious inclusion in this picture. That vessel happens to have the Russian word "optimist" printed across its flank. I find this fitting for one such as myself, whose strength of character has persevered through such vexing trials thus far. 

After careful consideration of my personal journey, and in keeping with the advice of one of my favorite poets, I shall tomorrow begin a tentative step into the world of epic poetry. It may be my previous ventures in lyric verse, memoir, and fiction only burst in failure because they were not grand enough to properly bear my ideological fruit. 

With epic gumption, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 10

Dear Readers:

Things have been better here at Casa de la Nude. The man is taking the Random House rejection pretty harsh, and is having some kind of, like, nervous breakdown. He ate all 50 of the gum wrappers his manuscript was written on, which gave him a pretty gnarly stomach ache. So he wanted me to tell you guys that he's like under the weather or whatever. Actually, he said something about his art consuming him, therefor he'd consume his art...but I totes didn't catch it all. Writers are super weird. 

Anyway, Tink and I went to Lake Baikal today. It was pretty cold, but there were these old dudes swimming in Speedos. They were all hairy and crazy looking but it was also awesome. 

Stay cool, 

Barbie

Me on a Lake cruise. 

Notes From the Underground — 9

Dear Publishers At Random House of Lies:

I reject your rejection of my manuscript. You call yourselves a home to great works of literature, and yet you cast my work aside? Unacceptable. 

I have put in a call to the authorities at The Colony, and have mobilized the Naked People's Union. I assume you will be removing your heads from your behinds posthaste, and have thus attached a photo for the book jacket. 

The Author, performing one of his infamous Feats of Strength at the Forbidden City in Beijing.

With open disdain for your poor choices, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 8

Dear Protégés:

As I'm sure you have guessed by now, my novel has begun to take a truly masterful shape. My pen dances upon the narrative arc like the most delicate of ballerinas. My tragic hero embodies the human condition with the force of 10,000 polar bears. Perched now above the shores of the most ancient lake in the world, fueled by its great depth, I take in the Baikalian air and am rejuvinated. 

I made the grave mistake of making Tink my editor last year, having taken in too much fairy dust during a moment of weakness. She says my book is nothing but a chauvinistic tribute to my own bare-chested masculinity. Today, as we take in the view of Listvyanka, I am kindly explaining to her the ways in which she is an idiot. 

Barbie has taken a liking to peppered vodka, and cannot be roused from her resting place on the laundry. She keeps muttering something about never getting Her Little Pony when she was girl, and how Skipper received all their father's affection. It's quite depressing. Who wants to hang around someone so very melancholy? Someone of my eternal optimism cannot be bothered by such theatrics. 

With a firm hand, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 7

Dear Fellow Travelers:

The moment we crossed over into Russian lands, I felt a shift in my pysche. There is a gravity to this landscape and its people, one which reflects the tortured contents of my soul parts (TM). It comforts me. This recognition has spurred a surge of hope, and I've asked Barbie and Tink to accompany me to the carriage window for some Coca-Cola and reclining. 

While there, as we discussed the masterpieces Dostoevsky called into the world, I made a major decision. Tomorrow I begin work on my novel. I suspect that my failures to express myself through poetry and memoir were only stepping stones to my true calling. It would not surprise me if I herald the next great movement in fiction, becoming a literary superman, if you will, navigating the depths of the human condition in ways the Russian novelists only began to explore. 

Tink says I should "get the f*@k over myself." 

But she is a foul-mouthed little fairy. So, obviously, she can go suck an egg.  

With a renewed sense of purpose, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 6

Dear Black Abyss,

I address this post into the bleak future, from the depths of the human's satchel. From the sounds of it, they are stuffing their faces with more dumplings, and harassing local birds. May they be carried off in the talons of a giant pidgeon, and dropped in a steaming mountain of camel dung. 

I have turned to haiku in this unidentifiable season of my discontent. And share with you my latest, rawest work, entitled: I Should Have Listened To Father. 

A plastic surgeon 

Treating sick ninja turtles.

No future in words.

I leave you with this picture of the dungeon I share with Barbie and Tink. As you can see, Tink's radioactive glow provides our sole dim light, which serves only to illuminate Barbie's ever-bared teeth, and a growing puddle of my talentless tears. 

With stoic reserve, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 5

Dear Fellow Literary Masochists:

Memoir is for the birds. Suicidal, narcissistic birds. My dreams dead and gone, I have boarded the Trans-Mongolian express with my faithful companions, in hopes of escaping myself entirely. Their enthusiasm for train travel, however, is excruciating. Barbie waves at absolutely everyone. And if one more person calls me Ken, I'll be forced to set myself on fire. That grinning, stiff-jointed fool wouldn't know good writing if it came molded onto his ass. 

Speaking of which, after my fruitless journey into non-fiction, during which I spent long hours staring at my own reflection, I see that I have been mercilessly tattooed with the names of my most unstable professors. Sherry Simpson? Brenda Miller? Stephen Corey? What madness possessed these fiends to turn their pens on me? No matter. 

I'm going to go hang precariously over the rail of the caboose. Barbie can damn well wave to my corpse. 

With reluctant humility, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 4

Dear Fellow Seekers of Truth and Genius:

I have spent today seeking my bliss at the Temple of Heaven Park. I was hoping that the great unknown would speak to me through the sanctity of this space. And friends, that it did. I finally have an answer for those ghouls at the Pacific Lutheran paperwork factory, who demand my declaration of genre forthwith. I am, without doubt, a writer of memoir, discovered at the very moment I was shat upon by a fortuitous pigeon. I began immediately to chronicle the many exceptional moments of my life upon this earth. So vigorously did I write, switching between right and left hands to better exercise my genius, my fingers have curled into a permanent writer's cramp — as you can see by the below photo. 

Tonight I plan to steal the human's vat of Tiger Balm, and ease my weary instruments. Tink has volunteered to keep watch during the heist, though I'm not sure how much help she'll be, as she gives off the strangest glow after dark. I fear she may be radioactive, but her beauty is irresistible. I've been donning the human's sunscreen before bed each night as a precaution, though that too is — to use her sophomoric language — a bitch to acquire. The woman is completely nonplussed by skin care regimes, yet hoards the toiletries like a mongoose. I pray that Operation Tiger's Balme (pronounced with the French ending, of course) does not end in my untimely demise. But if it does, I ask that you, my dutiful followers, publish my memoir as a posthumous work. I can already see that it will be an essential text for many generations of Naked people to come. I will not leave them to stir in the dark as I have done. 

With an impending sense of both greatness and doom, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 3

Dear Fellow Seekers:

The human has set more boundaries on my free expression. I can bear the injustice no more. 

I was in the middle of my meditations today, whereupon I examine for three hours the meaning of a single word, in order to better understand its complexities. (Today's word was "cockalorum," suggested to me for scrutiny by Tink and Barbie. Seriously, I don't know what their deal is lately.)

So there I was, deliberating on how "a small, haughty man" relates to my literary future *scoff*, when the human requested my intervention in yet another academic dispute. Lego Man and Snail were debating the validity of the lyric essay whilst lounging outside the Forbidden City. Lego Man maintained that rigid and predictable literary building blocks provide the only means for establishing a meaningful structure. Snail, of course arguing the opposing view, just slimed his way across a piece of paper and called it original thought. I think they are both hopeless idiots, and I made my estimation known through an ageless gesture of ridicule.  

The human is apparently enraged by the intrusion of my intellectual disdain on her asinine photograph. Her surprise upon reviewing the film was reward enough, but now she has demanded that my hands remain above the waist at all times. I cannot live beneath this reign of terror much longer. She stifles me, and every moment it continues, great art is lost. 

With very little regard for anything, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 2

Dear Fellow Seekers:

This voyage has spawned sweeping break throughs into my creative psyche. But I fear the cost is too great. I write this from my meager bunk, where I sleep near the human's feet. Her hygiene is unconscionable. It's as if she's never heard of scraping. No matter, I'm unable to rest regardless. I believe I may have actually begun to tap into the lingering minds of the ancient poets, a blessing and a curse. Even as they inspire, they haunt my dreams. Still, my work has been sporadically brilliant:

                

                The wind hurries past

                Stirs a lotus blossom shuffle

                Whispers to me

                Remove thy clothes...

But then it passes, and I am spent, devoid of writerly spark. I have only this tobacco of my homeland to cling to during the long nights. Barbie and Tink continue to be of very little help. They are high on inexpensive foot massages and fried pork.

With sincerest sincerity, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 1

Dear Fellow Seekers:

I write to you at the beginning of my soul-searching journey abroad. It became clear in recent weeks that my decision to become a student of fine literary arts will require a voyage of great magnitude. This Outside Experience has led me first to Beijing. While it seems to be wildly populated, I feel very isolated and alone. Almost no one here is naked. Barbie and Tink have refused to leave the hostel since our arrival, still weary from the journey. I don't blame them. The time spent in cargo was most deplorable, hardly the place to bear the fruit of this creative process. I have submitted my comments to the human, to no avail. She is a selfish creature, and absurdly overdressed. 

I leave you with this photograph of myself and a Chinese welder. In the background you will see the Imperial Palace, and entrance to the Forbidden City. Forbidden, perhaps. But keep me out it could not.

With most grave regards,

Naked Man