It’s hard to explain why I started picking up trash off the streets, but probably has something to do with the fact that I walk in it every day. You can find all kinds of trash in Mattapan gutters: used condoms, lollipops stuck to sewer grates, flat screen T.V.s, blocks of fishy cat food still in the shape of square tin cans, scooped directly onto the pavement, I suppose as an offering to the rats that have recently infested our block.
My Mom got me some furniture and sent it to herself at my address, where she does not in fact live or even stay, then texted me, basically, what translates into “Pix!!11” regarding the furniture, meaning she wants me to send her photos of the assembled furniture once it’s show-ready. I’m not really sure what to do with this: this sudden awareness that my Mom is acting like one of my former johns. They always wanted pix!!11, as in: “Hey sweetheart. Did you get the gold chain I sent you? I notice all the other girls have at least some kind of jewelry except you. I wanted to get you a little something. When you receive it, send pics of you wearing it so I can see how pretty you look. XOXO, Mike.” There was always something that necessitated pix!!11 — a gifted/unwanted sex toy, a highly specific fetish-themed outfit, a higher rez cam for better pics, requiring, of course, pix!!11 I didn’t text my Mom back. I don’t know what to say about this relationship anymore.
I call myself “ghostwriter” not because I write for other people, but because I am a writer who does not exist. Not in the sense of being A.I. or anything. What I mean is that I died 15 months ago and I’m writing this — all of it — from an interstitial space, somewhere between IRL life and whatever there might be of an “afterlife.” This is the start of my story.
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Ghost Writer 