I’ve been thinking about my differing recollections of many of the events here and how the observer effect applies to writing a memoir. The writer typically constructs conclusions, or anti-conclusions, through analyzing recollections and reflections, which are refracted via a predetermined level of candor. Hell, I just did it with that sentence. I meant to come stronger with the word “honesty,” but I softened the blow with “candor” instead. A memoirist could, if they so desired, write a set of different books while re-observing the same autobiographical material. But would it be the same material after being so heavily observed within the prior memoir?

I do wonder how purposefully you changed, embellished, and muddied details, or maybe you don’t know how much fictionalizing is occurring subconsciously—like you and your supposed fuzzy head whenever I was around. I’ve brought up your impossible recall of detailed dialogue earlier, but should we apply the same scrutiny to your painstaking depiction of the seventeen-year-old you’s emotional life? Does the adult you, the one who knows what is going to happen next to that kid, truly remember how you felt at seventeen? Is that kid forever trapped inside you, as easy to recall as the name of your first pet? All memoirs must trade in emotional ventriloquism; it’s part and parcel of a memoir’s allure. I’m more interested in the answer to this: Is it fair to young Art to be so harshly judged by someone who’s had decades to craft his responses?

Sorry to ramble. I’m putting off moving onto the next chapter because I know it won’t end well for either of us. Poor us.

One last thing re: Goth. Dude, it’s like you read my mind. For someone who claims he doesn’t want to be remembered after he’s gone, you sure do spill a lot of ink on the subject. You’d make the worst kind of immortal.

It’s Not Funny Anymore

IT’S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE

(May 1989)

A chapter in which a blob, a dinner, an attempted break-in, and not-a-jacket change everything

Dramarama!

It was as though Mercy knew we were driving to the last wake we’d attend together.

A few minutes before we pulled into Stephens’s parking lot, Mercy said, “Hey, remember the first time I showed up at the funeral home? To be honest, my plan was to check it out, see what kind of curio show it was. I mean, sorry, your flyers were a bit much—”

“You mean awesome.”

“Yeah, totally. So, I showed up to take some photos and that was gonna be my only time. I thought it would be all I needed. But then, you know, it was kind of nice. Morbid and odd and creepy, but nice.”

Afraid where this was going or not going, I blurted out, “And you met me and wanted to turn me into a punk.”