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.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Don't Make Me Boo You In The Atticus, Finch...
Wake up and get out of bed.
Whatever you're doing now, don't make a habit of it.
Take more walks.
Skate.
Read outside of your room.
Offer to walk a friend's dog.
Restring your bow.
Mani/Pedi.
Soup Plantation and The Los Angeles Times.
Only you can get yourself out of this pickle, Dill.
So...wake up and get out of bed.
We'll take it step by step.
Sloooooowwwwwwww-like because you're not too bright and usually scream when the sunlight hits your fragile, pasty head.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Fat Free Milk
If books were spontaneously created and based on our morning's forgotten and previously-dreamed ideas, than librarians would...QUIT.
God, what I wrote last night was GREAT. I had it in my head for an hour or so and it was so good that when I woke up I DIDN'T rush to put it down because...it was GOLDEN.
THIS WAS NOT IT.
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