"Erik T. Johnson is a master of weird fiction." ---Shane Douglas Keene
The Autobiographies of Erik t. [sic] Johnson
If you keep an author autobiography short—which you should—it isn't much more interesting than an obituary in the local paper.
So I’m not going to write about myself.
I’m just going to write, like this:
There were trails in the woods then, like corridors in an immense fortress of trees. Where the twilight or moon sifted in, Kaspar watched particles mix, specks of billions-year-old-stuff—atoms of long-gone mountains, rock, lingering riverbreath, roots from trees grown on the other side of the world, and the dark, heavy-treaded scent of unidentifiable, branch-breaking echoes—these ancient grains of world waltzed and flocked with fresher bits of pine and root and the sub-tang of ever-now caravans of black insects, dank fern and deermusk, mixed together in such indistinguishable equality, it was like time didn’t exist.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY#3 (Consider Revising. Maybe too arty? I don't know, for some reason I like it. So I'll leave it. It's not like I'm forcing anyone to read it.)
As a child, I wanted to get behind things. I could get behind the couches and the trees, but never my parents, who had a habit of turning around, of facing. They loved me and showered me with affections. I loved them back. At least, I did exactly what they did to me, right back to them. This mimickry never did satisfy me. I could not get behind it. My whole life I have felt very uncomfortable with things in general.
I worked in publishing. At least, I think I did. There were many magazines, many books, all around me. I worked in a cubicle. I added up numbers all day, representing money and subscribers and . . . that is all. The numbers were so very far away from what they symbolized that they needed to be organized in
columns with detailed headings explaining what they meant. They were senseless as dreams. Nobody ever mentioned this. But I do not think it was considered too obvious.
When I was 32 I opened the door to my apartment and found myself in a house I had never entered before. This was after my parents, after the publishing job. A tall, bony man covered in dust from head to foot extended his waxy hand to me and asked me if I knew how to reach the kitchen. He said he was lost. I asked
him if he was a ghost. He startled, and disappeared. But he never did answer me. And I could not find the kitchen but I found this typewriter. I can't get it to stop working.
Ah, if only . . .