JR Angelella: The Agonist

It's Thursday in my apartment. Morning to touch on a particular part of the day. Joe is en route to Brooklyn. He drives a sick ride. Suitcases pile about my living room. I am freshly shaven, scrubbed, dressed and listening to The Killers' album Sam's Town. This is the album I listened to when I first went off to Vermont. It gives me chills to hear it.

My third semester wrapped earlier this week with a solid packet response. Now it's time to turn my target back onto the Novel that I have been writing for close to 7 years, but avoided for the last one. It has become a trilogy over time. This is the first book. There will be two more at some point. The new advisor is in Vermont. I am hesitant to approach him about it. Baggage. Much baggage, but not the ones in the living room. Regardless, the end is only off in the distance somewhere over the hill I am climbing. I am almost to the top.

The Novel is close. I took a year sabbatical from writing it, giving it distance, allowing myself time to grow, allowing time for the material to mature. The violence buried at the heart of the book is attainable now. I am no longer afraid to approach it, write it, devour it, digest it. My boy, Jeremy, has been calling me for weeks now, letting the phone ring and ring and ring, waiting for me to pick up. His message is always the same. "Ross, I'm ready to die now. Not that I want you to kill me, but you always say you have to be ready to die for something in order for it to mean anything." This I believe to be true. I would die for my wife because what we have means something. This is an important example. Jeremy is ready to die for the book, not that it will happen. Although, it could. The final scene is a question mark. I see how it ends, but the body count is a blur.

Another song fades out a new one begins and another chills climbs my skin.

There is a push now for my fiction to find a home. One story has recently found a home. Another is being considered. A third will be discussed at residency and also sent off to find shelter. The learning curve is over. I have finally heaped my fiction upon my back and am carrying it with few stumbles. Up the hill. To see the view first hand for myself.

I read Aristophanes' play The Birds where the space between the mortals and the Gods is created. They call it Cloudcuckooland. This is the new world where the best of both worlds can exist and thrive. Once I reach the top of the hill, i will spread my wings and take flight, soaring to this place. I will join the ranks of my heroes and become a proud resident of the original thinkers, the creators, the storymakers, my other family.

And there will be a great festival, welcoming my arrival.