- like a shadow burned into a wall April 15, 2018
- all that appeared was a blind obstinate impulse expressing itself in bursts of foolishness April 8, 2018
- standing at the center of the picture of his joy April 7, 2018
This is my blog, perhaps you would like to read it. Either way—whether you read it or not—I strongly encourage the posting of erroneous defamatory comments because there’s nothing like a good bit of semi-anonymous libel and slander to make things interesting. I hate you guys too.
Speaking of things, the things I post here are inspired by other things, and those by yet others. These other things may include, but are not limited to, howler monkeys (because they make the Kerouac Face), Byron Bunch, run-on sentences, quantum physics, mistakes, and the color beige. Tergiversate is a good word. Think about that.
The dashing, burly, Neanderthalic fellow pictured above is not me but my father, I’m both sorry and proud to say, in 1973. Photos of me from that ostensibly tremendous year nestled cozily between 1972 and 1974 are not readily available as I was unborn, nonexistent, just a glimmer, maybe faint, maybe shining, depending on the day. You can see it in his eye if you look close enough, beneath that prehistoric brow. I decided to wait a few more years to make my appearance, finally showing up for the last week of the ‘70s so I could say I’d been there, and I have. I was there. I’m here now because I have a great need to say I am, but I’m not sure I can yet, not sure there’s cause for such a firm declaration. I wish and wash instead.
Another thing I don’t do is post stories here very often, but I do write them, hundreds of them, thousands, billions. But who’s counting. “They’re not going to publish themselves,” I’m told. Why not? I wish they would, and I wish wishing were enough. I’m not asking for much, after all, just fame and notoriety, great, towering fame, maybe deification. I’d even settle for sainthood and a handful of honorary degrees for flaunting and taunting, if supermegastardom is too much to ask.
Life is strange. I write about that.
Here I am, for real, if you were wondering. I’m a weekly contributor to Hijacked Amygdala (Sundays), and a regular recipient of denials from various magazines, journals, and other publications.
P.S. – All words and images and attitudes on this site are mine, so don’t go thieving.