I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Holden, Scout, Kilgore or Klingon...
One could only wish to pull off a brilliant Harper Lee or J.D. Salinger reclusive entrance/exit. Journalism and writing small articles or books of short stories never cuts it, either. That's like passing gas against an enormous waft of expectant King Kong stink.
Somebody told me the other day that Van Gogh only cut off part of his ear.
I'd like to be known for writing an earlobe's worth of something lasting.
Something bloody.
And something that doesn't stink...too bad.
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The first time moi viewed a Van Gogh, I knew not of this painting, I turned (In The Pittsburgh Carnegie), saw and ALMOST
ReplyDeletefell over.
I was staggered but caught moi's self.
You have a great blog.
The naked bride posting is classic.
Stay on Groovin' Safari,
TOR
Kevinn Malone must be destroyed.
ReplyDeleteIn fact, let us destroy all without a "Y" in their names.
That ought to work out this over population thing.