This tiny thing is so hard to write on, but that’s the path assigned. The password, foolishly written in anger, is forgotten, but perhaps he will help. Wipe it clean. Scorched earth. Reboot of life. I have been mean, but I am not a hostage. I am allowed. The “Becareful what you wish for” is intense. I have never experienced it this bad. So clear like the aurora in a sunstorm. Brilliant and debillitating because it just grabs you and enslaves your attention. You know it by rumor, it logical fits in your mind, but the one two punch: the wonderment of the wish fulfillment and the reality of its inner Frankenstein make you the deer in the headlights.
Tomorrow he may fix my screentyper. But I’ll wait. Unfortunately the dire wolf aspects of non webbed living combined with the Zhivago acquisition has mused me into a word purge mode. It is more considered on this tabla rasta (sic). My editor of the immediate is less on guard. Weirder, more wordy gooey stuff comes out. There is less story telling and language song emerges. Reading Paternak the art of poetry seems lost in the dot dash dot ( l O ) world. No more time for sparrows and Hawthorne berry prose . The birds chirped in the bush cause it was ripe. No mooniness, no spirit or nature magic. Just the facts, ma’am. O.k? It tastes good. That’s it. But that is my voice. Terse, like Hemingway. Although he told great stories. There is my goal. The story. The misfits. The mob. The dregs. The crust and sauce of 25 joints serving the same thing forever over and over.
But I am writing. Is this not writing? Or must i- the rose was unlike any other seen by a human iris. The deepest of scarlet like vein fed blood it transmogrified the casual gazer with an awe and inadequacy that imparted guilt and lust in equal parts. Those that knew not lust just burned red with shame.
Pizza is so every where and yet ancient like Coliseum food in Rome.
The logjam has cracks. Until the 1940’s most timber logs came out of Vermont and extreme rural New Hampshire via the Connecticut River. Sunken trees as old as McKinley lie on the bottom. And in the winter the logs in the water froze into rafts and jams. Each holding and capturing until the ice eroded away and water poured through the slush pulp barrier. ..the pie will yield to the tacodilla and the sushi cheese steak.
And I will chronicle the Starbucks on Moonbase Alpha and the Jollibee down the Marianas trench. Cause the freedom to autowrite or freestyle will inspire stories. How dare you text in my car will it’s snowing.