Prologue
It’s called the windy city, and in truth it is windy. It comes from the number of people conversing in the subway stations and the prattle arising amongst the consumption of coffee and the business deals going awry and the minority neighborhoods whispering in fear of the police state. It comes from a million things and it comes from one thing that holds central to the essence of humanity: what is it to be human, to fear, to love and to communicate? If you listen to the wind you can hear the voices warning about tax hikes and the elections. It’s winter and it’s Chicago. A lot of people claim to love it, but they lie because the wind is ubiquitous and the wind is cold and it cuts not only to your bones, but to your soul and it says that you need to go inside and wait. Because humans do hibernate, although we lie to ourselves. To hibernate is to be indoors or to be sheltered or to huddle close for warmth and though it may be cold outside, the warmth of human truth keeps us warm.
I hate the winter. Chicago winters are cold and cloudy and windy and miserable. I wrap myself in commodities and personal invitations when it comes. Used to drink whiskey or cheap champagne just to feel a little warmer inside but it turns out that it isn’t healthy for you. You live through enough of these and complain, God, I always complain, but you end up at least respecting it for its power. Winter demonstrates that you can’t win in regards to nature. We bend to its rules and realize when it has some sort of sublime majesty that we can’t ever emulate the same thing because to be sublime is to be superhuman. So we strive in our sciences and art and we feel as though we’re getting a little closer and I begin to ask myself whether or not we’re doing it until I see my friends or relations conquer cancer and my cynicism erase itself.
I live on the thirty-second story of a big building and enjoy the view. The key of Chicago is to know when you’re winning and when you’re losing and as long as you’re on some sort of high floor, you know that while you can’t beat the sublime, you can at least enjoy that strange feeling of terror you get from whatever it is that dictates your mind. I watch the storms in the winter and the lake in the summer. The summer requires that people go outside. The winter is useful for having people over. There are pros and cons for everything and naturally I have some things that I feel more akin to, like the summer, but I can at least recognize that draw of some of the other stuff too. I don’t like to live in black and whites. I don’t quite have concrete beliefs, just things that are close to them, because I feel that if someone brings up a better argument or if there is a small case for something else, then it should be considered. I do like summer, that much is true: I like it a lot, but I will hold out through winter as I can see the parts of it that can be attractive. The snow looks pretty when it falls, as it is now. It lingers in beauty on the sidewalks for a few hours and then heavy boots and salt corrupts it, twisting it into a slushy residue of the purity that originally the earth. But it’s like God knew that we weren’t going to like winter, so He decided that we could at least have something pretty, and so snow was created. Thanks.
From my view, I can watch the snow collapse upon the lesser buildings. It gathers on antennas and folds upon the rooftops. Snow is really pretty. There’s really no need to explain any more than that.
I’m really only writing this beginning to give a little bit of my personality to the reader. Apparently, I’m something of an enigma. If you couldn’t tell from the cover of the book, my name is Regimund Fuko. I get funny looks when I say that. What kind of name is Fuko? Some sort of perversion of Japanese? I don’t really know to be honest. I was born with it. And I think Regimund is a fairly regal name, recalling the monarchy of the old world or at least the pseudo-aristocracy of the old United States. Sometimes I wonder whether my parents were simply playing some sort of joke on me, but the name has served me well. It’s unique, I suppose. I’ve never actually met another Regimund, and outside of my family, I’ve never met another Fuko. I kind of like it to be honest.
The year is 2010 and I am well set in my ways. I am an elderly youngster. I am thirty three years old and have come from a strange past. Not like some sort of science-fiction thing, though I wouldn’t be in complete opposition if that were the case, but rather I’ve done a lot of things that the populace would consider different. It’s where I draw a lot of my controversy. In my time, I’ve written several books and published a lot of short fiction. I’m sure you’ve read some of them; why else would you be reading this?
My writing allows me to live on the thirty second floor and owning my own publishing house also allows me to make a bit more money than people make from mere writing. It’s not like a musician where you can sell merch in a gesture to draw funds from different people. No one wants a “R. Fuko 2005 World Tour” t-shirt. No one wants a tote bag with my name on it. That would be silly. Instead, I make a lot of money and save it for a future that I hope I am having now. My works are best-sellers and a bunch of them are considered pretty damn good. Hopefully that trend continues as I write to be lauded. That is the true calling of the writer. We write in order that we may be listened to and viewed as some sort of disturbed philosopher or pre-natal prophet that really only prophecies the present. We write as we cater to the present and we say things that really only are created from the people we know or the places we have been. Read to gain knowledge and perspective. Write to vomit your soul upon some pages that may be seen or may be passed or ridiculed. It matter and it doesn’t, because of the catharsis that is received from creating anything.
Creation.
