Vanessa Vela Lovelace;9:18pm

i wish i had a cool ass name like yours. if i could’ve named myself, i would’ve called myself, evan steelblood. actually, a friend of mine who visited our little writers workshop, said you were one of the first people she read because of your name. awesome introduction, dude.

really, i have never experienced such a dichotomy. well, maybe a balance. well, maybe polarity. well, maybe parity. well, maybe disparity. well, i dunno. but it’s something like that. something to that effect. never have been able to describe you that easily. maybe that’s why you are one of the last fascinating people on the face of the planet. because the molecules keep moving in such a limited amount of space. and when i say limited, i mean inifinite.

hmm…don’t think i’m doing that good of a job here. i guess if i were to move on and describe a couple of other things that i know about you, it might help.

see, i would assume, upon initial introduction, other than your awesome name, the regular people out there wouldn’t think you had much to offer them except maybe a cigarette if you had one. they’d probably pass you by on their way to the next bar or club or sporting event or fucking thing like that without a second glance over their shoulder. i’ve seen it happen. i’ve experienced it while i was smoking a cigarette right next to you. and it kind of made me chuckle to myself. because it reaffirmed a sad truth about this world. that people are just plain stupid.

they don’t know some of the things i know. shit, suckah, i lived with you for a year. my cigarette partner on the deck balconey, sipping on coffee in the morning or shooting vodka at night, watching the sun rise while eating eggs and spam or watching the sun set eating pasta and hot dogs. we’ve had millions of conversations that go beyond what kinds of situaltional comedies or reality shows that happen on TV. shit that had a lot to do with the episodes going on in our very own souls. the kinds of stuff that those same regular people, the stupid fucks, fear, and cover it up with that numbing idiocy.

what was that, three or four years ago? was it really that long ago? before you had the last name lovelace, before you even had a son. before i moved to san francisco and before i had money. remember how easy shit was, comparitively, back then? hours upon hours, smoking and smoking, talking and talking, peeling one layer after another of the truth. gettign close to understanding all the dots in the sky to all the dots in the real world. so crazy when i think about it. i thought that shit was hard.

and now, here you are, two children, married, jobbity job, shit on your resume that can, literally, kill humans, ideas that are turning into real shit. one of the things you wrote on this here writers workshop was a speech to the graduating folks at CSUN. i guess what i’m trying to say is that things happen so fast and furiously in the blink of an eye. even now. and it always will. and that it is fascinating to me.

when people see you, they don’t realize you are one of the best writers in Los Angeles. that you have your fingers in projects and whispers in ears that can eventually change the shape of this motherfucking city. when people see you, they don’t know how many peoples lives you have directly effected through friendship and blunt suggestions, and how many people you’ve indirectly effected by the numerous projects you’ve helped out in. now i’m talking hundreds of thousands of people, vanessa. and this is no joke. if you were to take the time to count how many people who have walked into something you indirectly had a hand in, hundreds of thousands is no guess. it’s a fact. and you hardly ever take credit for that. coulds be the reason why, when people look at you for the first time, they have no idea they are looking at someone who is more powerful than the temporary icons they covet on TV.

you are consistent. you’re a mainstay in this community. you are necessary to it’s growth. and you are intelligent and strategic enough to know you aren’t going to be able to do it alone. so you’ve become patient and dilligent while other people slowly develop into their particular roles. if there’s anyone out there who understands the bigger picture, it’s your ass. well, not your ass, but you know what the fuck i’m talking about.

i want you to write more. i really, really, really, want you to write more. in whatever capacity you can. the wit and cleverness you project through your writing, the insecurity yet confident voice you have is something not too many people possess in literature. i can count three people right now. it’s a power and a gift you own that is a super nuclear weapon you can use to help this motherfucking evolution of EVERYTHING come along quicker.

i was fortunate to be your roommate, vanessa. i learned a lot from you. you gave me a lot of theories that i’m putting into practice right now. i got a couple of things you might want to be a part of. and it takes a strong and powerful writer to do it. it takes several of us. we are going to move mountains. and writing is just one of the tools we’ll use. but we do have to sharpen them and use them to our advantage in the most optimum way.

so we are gonna do this periodical thing. we are going to publish our writers workshop. we are going to evolve literature and the communities we represent. we are going to make money doing this. all we need to do is write. write good. and write often. if we do that, everything will fall into place because i’m a motherfucking genius. woohoo!!!

we should talk. i’ll provide the cigarettes. you find us a patio balconey.