1/31/2007
Allow me to stop in the middle of this meditation on writing and the writing life we have been entertaining. A little trivia. A little news before we forge ahead with the next posting. But I thought you'd like to know that the German edition of Hummingbird is ready to fly (no pun intended). It's called Kolibri's Tochter. We just got the catalogue here, and the cover is very nice. Also, Devil's Highway continues being The Book That Won't Go Away. The state of Wisconsin's arts council picked it to be their all-state read. I have had all-college and all-high school reads, and as you know, all-city reads San Francisco, Austin, Salt Lake City, Yuma). But a whole state...wow, that's something. Anyway, these small items brought cheer to our flu house this week...along with some very promising developments on the movie and TV front. New stuff. Really cool stuff. I wish I could say something. I can't...I just can't. Don't make me! I...can't...say...anything...yet! Sorry for the trivia. I'm going back to coughing and groaning.
7 And 7 Is
1/27/2007
It's icy all around us. The girls are upstairs putting on a puppet show. Cinderella and Eric are in Texas, where he's auditioning for the best percussion school in the country. I'm here, happy to have completed the third section of House of Broken Angels. Getting ready for the cataclysms of the finale. And I'm also happy because I had my first biopsy! That must be some kind of rite of passage, eh? You know you're decrepit when you get evil globs of weird meat growing on you, and doctors are compelled to carve out a bit of your chest and mail it to somebody so they can enjoy the biomass along with you. It came back benign, by the way--just a bizarre enthusiasm of the flesh. However, my body decided to protest the incision and fired up an infection that tore the stitches apart. Ha ha! My chest is having a tantrum. But I am, as ever, superhuman and prevailing.
Last night, my dear friend from my mad high school days, Carol Moore, had her book group call me so we could talk about Hummingbird on the speaker phone. Wow--what a dense experience for me. Carol, who knew me as I crawled through the smoke and rubble of the nascent writing life I am sharing with you in these posts, now married and reading books I never thought I could write or publish. Carol, who went to Senior Grad Nite at Disneyland with me! Carol, who regrettably showed the ladies pictures of me in a toga! Circles close; serpents bite their own rattles and dance in spirals. Me--I'm just a paper boat riding time around the shoreline.
Here's a song that moved me deeply back then because it was so pissed off. I don't want anyone to think I am a zen buddha-boy. I'd like to be. I try to be when I'm leading workshops. But anyone who really knos me can thank Christ in Heaven that I'm not King of the World. There would be arbitrary heads on spikes everywhere, man! So, like all good wannabe poets, and all good teenaged (and older...much older) boys, I liked to feel sorry for myself and be MAD. Ironically, this song was by Love, the great LA band led by the brilliant Arthur Lee (RIP):
"When I was a boy I thought about the time I'd be a man/ I'd sit inside a bottle and pretend that I was in a can/ In my lonely room I'd put my mind inside and ice cream cone/ You can throw me if you want to, 'cause I'm a bone..." Kinda psychedelic, but definitely spoke to me about the whole process. Speaks to me still. Arthur Lee! Avatar!
I had teachers (aside from Carol Moore). I have mentioned this, no doubt, but music went to the base of my skull in a way nothing else could (except Carol Moore). [By the way--you should read This Is Your Brain on Music by Daniel Lavitin--Eric or any Zeppelin/Hendrix/Respighi/Johnny Cash freak can tell you what I'm saying is true.] I was in the zone, baby! I was learning not to write, but to feel. I always felt before I thought. (I almost wrote "thank." This would be a swell past form of "think," and a strangely apt typo. Maybe it's my soul telling me something. I felt before I thanked.] And those teachers were people like Arthur Lee, or Jack Bruce's lyricist, Pete Brown. Or Pete Townshend. Or Dylan, of course, but even more so, Leonard Cohen. Isn't this true? Didn't you honestly go somewhere led by Joni Mitchell (Kurt Cobain, Joe Strummer, you name the artists) you didn't know existed?
Is it any wonder I never gave women flowers, but gave them poems and music instead? (I was too poor for flowers anyway. I spent all my money on books and records.)
Feeling before thought. It is my strength and failure. Always has been. Always will be. I am the guy with sticks in his hair and a pocket full of shiny rocks. This is the key to what I write and how I write and even why I write.
Arthur Lee gets really worked up in the second half of the song: "If I don't start crying it is because that I have got no eyes [sic], / My Bible's in the foireplace and my dog lies hypnotized. / Through a crack of light, I wasn't able to find my way. / Trapped inside of night, but I'm a day...."
Nice.
Moves my cholestrol around, especially when the song abruptly ends with an atomic bomb exploding.
I like that last couplet so much, you'll find it at the front of Broken Angels. Arthur Lee knew what he was talking about, y'all. He knew about me, anyway. I suspect he knew about you. He even knew about the Joyous Angel Carol Moore. And that was what made me feel, then think: I'm trapped inside of night, but I'm a day....
And I go boop-bip-bip, boop-bip-bip, yeah.
L
Q & A
Last night, my dear friend from my mad high school days, Carol Moore, had her book group call me so we could talk about Hummingbird on the speaker phone. Wow--what a dense experience for me. Carol, who knew me as I crawled through the smoke and rubble of the nascent writing life I am sharing with you in these posts, now married and reading books I never thought I could write or publish. Carol, who went to Senior Grad Nite at Disneyland with me! Carol, who regrettably showed the ladies pictures of me in a toga! Circles close; serpents bite their own rattles and dance in spirals. Me--I'm just a paper boat riding time around the shoreline.
Here's a song that moved me deeply back then because it was so pissed off. I don't want anyone to think I am a zen buddha-boy. I'd like to be. I try to be when I'm leading workshops. But anyone who really knos me can thank Christ in Heaven that I'm not King of the World. There would be arbitrary heads on spikes everywhere, man! So, like all good wannabe poets, and all good teenaged (and older...much older) boys, I liked to feel sorry for myself and be MAD. Ironically, this song was by Love, the great LA band led by the brilliant Arthur Lee (RIP):
"When I was a boy I thought about the time I'd be a man/ I'd sit inside a bottle and pretend that I was in a can/ In my lonely room I'd put my mind inside and ice cream cone/ You can throw me if you want to, 'cause I'm a bone..." Kinda psychedelic, but definitely spoke to me about the whole process. Speaks to me still. Arthur Lee! Avatar!
I had teachers (aside from Carol Moore). I have mentioned this, no doubt, but music went to the base of my skull in a way nothing else could (except Carol Moore). [By the way--you should read This Is Your Brain on Music by Daniel Lavitin--Eric or any Zeppelin/Hendrix/Respighi/Johnny Cash freak can tell you what I'm saying is true.] I was in the zone, baby! I was learning not to write, but to feel. I always felt before I thought. (I almost wrote "thank." This would be a swell past form of "think," and a strangely apt typo. Maybe it's my soul telling me something. I felt before I thanked.] And those teachers were people like Arthur Lee, or Jack Bruce's lyricist, Pete Brown. Or Pete Townshend. Or Dylan, of course, but even more so, Leonard Cohen. Isn't this true? Didn't you honestly go somewhere led by Joni Mitchell (Kurt Cobain, Joe Strummer, you name the artists) you didn't know existed?
Is it any wonder I never gave women flowers, but gave them poems and music instead? (I was too poor for flowers anyway. I spent all my money on books and records.)
Feeling before thought. It is my strength and failure. Always has been. Always will be. I am the guy with sticks in his hair and a pocket full of shiny rocks. This is the key to what I write and how I write and even why I write.
Arthur Lee gets really worked up in the second half of the song: "If I don't start crying it is because that I have got no eyes [sic], / My Bible's in the foireplace and my dog lies hypnotized. / Through a crack of light, I wasn't able to find my way. / Trapped inside of night, but I'm a day...."
Nice.
Moves my cholestrol around, especially when the song abruptly ends with an atomic bomb exploding.
I like that last couplet so much, you'll find it at the front of Broken Angels. Arthur Lee knew what he was talking about, y'all. He knew about me, anyway. I suspect he knew about you. He even knew about the Joyous Angel Carol Moore. And that was what made me feel, then think: I'm trapped inside of night, but I'm a day....
And I go boop-bip-bip, boop-bip-bip, yeah.
L
1/19/2007
Keep 'em coming, folks! This looks like it will be fun. I am answering the questions of "Esteban" and an anonymous poster. I get rich emails--a lot--and I try to answer those directly. But this is certainly the way to create our mutual writing text. After this posting, I'll put up the newest "Wastelander's Notebook" for the tour in Spring '06. I was asked about formatting and planning books--whether I outline or not. Excellent question, mysreious reader. The format dictates itself to me. For example, some things want to be poems, and some things want to be essays. But I don't think that's what you want to know. You're asking about books, right? I have a plan, but having too much of a plan feels like cheating. If you ever see me doing my reading tours and lectures, you'll notice I never use notes. It don't mean a thing if you ain't got that swing! And I always feel like preparation is cheating--not you, or me, or even the text (though those are elemtns)--but cheating the spirit (or SPIRITS) of writing itself. All that being said, both The Devil's Highway and The Hummingbird's Daughter were based on historical fact. Though one was fiction and one was not. So the stately and sometimes unruly parade of days and events lent a framework to what I had to write. However, I know where I want to go--always. I just don't know how to get there till I start to write...and often, the destination changes. Do I use documents in my writing? Yes, absolutely. Whether they're research notes or archival materials or diskettes--I have boxes full. I just got some legal documents written by Lauro Aguirre, for example. Here comes Hummingbird II! However, I also keep notebooks. I function as my own library, and I'm a magpie, picking up shiny quotes, poems, signs, overheard dialogue, dreams, letters, data. How do ideas manifest? Are they already in the paper, waiting to be revealed? That, of course, refers to sculptors bringing a sculpture out of the marble where it is trapped. Hmm. I think many stories are in the ether. Rudolfo Anaya says we write to guide the spirits home. Were my writing classes at UCSD helpful? I have a simmering disgust for UCSD, I'll wanr you. Bilge-eating swewr worms, the lot of them. But when I was a callow youth, those classes changed my life. No question. Dr. Wai-lim Yip exposed me to Chinese and Asian poets. Dr. Wesling taught me to control my more operatic purple instincts. Lowry Pei freed my mind--and, as George Clinto promised--my ass did follow...he got me out of Cali and into Harvard. Ursula K. Le Guin led a grand workshop that steered me in the right direction...and led to my first big publication in her anthology, Edges. besides, I got to take her to her first visit to Star Wars. How could that not make you a better writer! Do I apply learnings from those classes? I apply the best education I ever got--from mt high school drama teacher, Diane Curran. From my mentor, Cesar Gonzalez at Mesa College. And from God's machine, Pastor Von (see Across the Wire). My other teachers are legion. Including you. Finally, what place does Spanish have? I write mostly in English. I dream in English. I write poems in Spanish that I mostly hate. However, when I got to Mexico, in a matter of days, I am dreaming in Spanish. then I write in Spanish. OK? I hope that addressed some of your questions. Thanks for asking! Pax, Luigius
Snow
1/15/2007
What brings me close to God is the silence of snow. --Orhan Pamuk, Snow
Small flakes coming down, sugaring the grass. The geese, fooled by the warm Fall into hanging out in our neighborhood ponds hunker down and make themselves fluffy. Our lone wilkd turkey, survivor from his gang that has apparently succumbed to dogs and cars and bad kids, is hiding out in the trees by the corner pond, perhaps sharing his refuge with a few ducks. Still, it's nothing like what has befallen my spiritual motherland, the Rocky mtns. The drought ended with an avalanche out there. Wish I were seeing it now.
You know that I teach workshops at Fishtrap, the miraculous summer gathering gathering in Joseph, Oregon. Years ago, at my first workshop, there was a haunted fellow named Ben Butzein. He wanted to write about his experiences in war, and his experiences in life...which sometime was more war. We came home after that summer, and Ben bought some land in the valley. There, he camped and fished for trout. Over the years, we reconnected. And this summer, he took my workshop again. But the difference was, this year, Ben was dying. He had months to live, and he spent his last writing experience with me. I will always remember that.
I won't lessen Ben by saying he was a saint, or even saintly, or that he was a cuddly love-muffin who will be waiting for us in Heaven. But he was a good man who had lived through hard things, and he had tough feelings in his heart. He had a kind of wisdom that tough knocks can give you.
At the end of the gathering, I gave the writers and assignment: I asked them to travel in time, to write the future them a letter. You, here, now, in this place, need to tell you, home and caught in the old life, what you need to remember about the good things here. A simple assignment. Cinderella and I collected the letters and told them we'd mail them when we felt like it. Ben's got to him before he died, and I hope his message to himself gave him a bit of peace as he "walked on" (as some of my indigenous friends put it).
Some of the Fishtrap people went to his service. Just a small note of a passing--someone you didn't know. But it's snowing, and it made me think of him.
So, Broken Angels is in its home stretch.
I received some questions from "Esteban" on the blog. So my next posting will be answers to those writing questions. This little experiment in writing will roll on. And I have a long "Wastelander's Norebook" entry from the epic tour of '06 to post. Lots of reading coming your way in the next few days.
Fall, mountains, just don't fall on me... L
Mr. Soul
Small flakes coming down, sugaring the grass. The geese, fooled by the warm Fall into hanging out in our neighborhood ponds hunker down and make themselves fluffy. Our lone wilkd turkey, survivor from his gang that has apparently succumbed to dogs and cars and bad kids, is hiding out in the trees by the corner pond, perhaps sharing his refuge with a few ducks. Still, it's nothing like what has befallen my spiritual motherland, the Rocky mtns. The drought ended with an avalanche out there. Wish I were seeing it now.
You know that I teach workshops at Fishtrap, the miraculous summer gathering gathering in Joseph, Oregon. Years ago, at my first workshop, there was a haunted fellow named Ben Butzein. He wanted to write about his experiences in war, and his experiences in life...which sometime was more war. We came home after that summer, and Ben bought some land in the valley. There, he camped and fished for trout. Over the years, we reconnected. And this summer, he took my workshop again. But the difference was, this year, Ben was dying. He had months to live, and he spent his last writing experience with me. I will always remember that.
I won't lessen Ben by saying he was a saint, or even saintly, or that he was a cuddly love-muffin who will be waiting for us in Heaven. But he was a good man who had lived through hard things, and he had tough feelings in his heart. He had a kind of wisdom that tough knocks can give you.
At the end of the gathering, I gave the writers and assignment: I asked them to travel in time, to write the future them a letter. You, here, now, in this place, need to tell you, home and caught in the old life, what you need to remember about the good things here. A simple assignment. Cinderella and I collected the letters and told them we'd mail them when we felt like it. Ben's got to him before he died, and I hope his message to himself gave him a bit of peace as he "walked on" (as some of my indigenous friends put it).
Some of the Fishtrap people went to his service. Just a small note of a passing--someone you didn't know. But it's snowing, and it made me think of him.
So, Broken Angels is in its home stretch.
I received some questions from "Esteban" on the blog. So my next posting will be answers to those writing questions. This little experiment in writing will roll on. And I have a long "Wastelander's Norebook" entry from the epic tour of '06 to post. Lots of reading coming your way in the next few days.
Fall, mountains, just don't fall on me... L
1/10/2007
Well, hello Mr. Soul, I dropped by to pick up a reason / For a thought that I caught that my head is the event of the season. / Why in crowds just a trace of my face could seem so pleasin'. / I'll cop out to the change but a stranger is putting the tease on...
That was Neil Young and Buffalo Springfield, singing the classic "Mr. Soul." Welcome to Radio Hummingbird. I'm Luis, and I'll be playing your favorite records till dawn.
Oh yeah--that's how I started writing. Late nights in the bedroom of my haunted house. I'd spend the days at school being a wild boy. I'd spend my nights in the crazy poverty of our ruined house listening to records and feeling desperate. My dad was a tooth-grinder, and he'd grind through his tormented bad dreams all night--louder and louder. I have written about this before in one of my million books, so forgive me if you've heard this. But he thought the angry dead were pursuing him through time. He heard knocks on his bedroom furniture. His bed bounced for no reason--I felt it. My mom, in her own sad room, whimpered and shrieked in terror all night. How could you sleep?
I was down on a frown when a messenger brought me a letter. / I was raised by the praise of a fan who said I upset her. / Any girl in the world could have easily known me better. / She said, "You're strange, but don't change," and I let her...
I was alwasy the last guy picked for sports teams. How about you? I found myself onstage in the drama department of our high school and believed I had a place in the world. And the universe of writing opened up to me when I fell into the perfumed world of young women. The jocks did not want me, but I was astounded that the girls did! Yeah, man! I wrote and wrote! Somebody wanted to listen. I had these little black books we'd pass around, and then I had my own record books full of bad poems. And hid in the late night room, listening. Leonard Cohen, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Shawn Phillips, Jack Bruce (with lyirics by Pete Brown), David Bowie.
Prudence--I used to call you at night and play you records over the phone. Colette, I used to talk to you on the phone in your bed because you wanted to listen to my voice as you fell asleep. And many of my most beloved people were far away from me, so I wrote letters, big yawping full long letters. I wrote Spanish epistles of madness, long rolling documents full of cartoons and poems. I started to write letters to people I saw anyway. Rockie Lee wrote me round letters in a spiral with purple or pink ink. Other bad poets wrote duels with me. Writing. It grew and grew. I was frantic to escape, and I developed a faith that writing would carry me. And it did. I wrote myself out of San Diego to Harvard in 1982.
In a while will the smile on my face turn to plaster? / Stick around while the clown who is sick does the trick of disaster. / Though the race of my head and my face is moving much faster. / Is it strange I should change? I don't know, why don't you ask her.
I will try to offer you some gathering chapters about writing and this writer this year in this blog. Let's write a book together. You let me know what you are curious about, and I'll answer it. I'll give you The Updates. Gossip and haiku and trivial crap--which is all stuff I enjoy. But I also want to write. As if I don't write anough already. You might have noticed some of the entries in the archive are really some kind of pieces of a book...or books. Why stop? Life is short, but writing is not.
By the way, I'm 2/3 of the way through Broken Angels. UIC goes back in session next week, so I don't know if I can keep up this blistering pace. But the deepest most dangerous part of the book is upon me.
Is it strange I should change? I don't know, why don't you aske her.
L
The Worst Book in America
That was Neil Young and Buffalo Springfield, singing the classic "Mr. Soul." Welcome to Radio Hummingbird. I'm Luis, and I'll be playing your favorite records till dawn.
Oh yeah--that's how I started writing. Late nights in the bedroom of my haunted house. I'd spend the days at school being a wild boy. I'd spend my nights in the crazy poverty of our ruined house listening to records and feeling desperate. My dad was a tooth-grinder, and he'd grind through his tormented bad dreams all night--louder and louder. I have written about this before in one of my million books, so forgive me if you've heard this. But he thought the angry dead were pursuing him through time. He heard knocks on his bedroom furniture. His bed bounced for no reason--I felt it. My mom, in her own sad room, whimpered and shrieked in terror all night. How could you sleep?
I was down on a frown when a messenger brought me a letter. / I was raised by the praise of a fan who said I upset her. / Any girl in the world could have easily known me better. / She said, "You're strange, but don't change," and I let her...
I was alwasy the last guy picked for sports teams. How about you? I found myself onstage in the drama department of our high school and believed I had a place in the world. And the universe of writing opened up to me when I fell into the perfumed world of young women. The jocks did not want me, but I was astounded that the girls did! Yeah, man! I wrote and wrote! Somebody wanted to listen. I had these little black books we'd pass around, and then I had my own record books full of bad poems. And hid in the late night room, listening. Leonard Cohen, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Shawn Phillips, Jack Bruce (with lyirics by Pete Brown), David Bowie.
Prudence--I used to call you at night and play you records over the phone. Colette, I used to talk to you on the phone in your bed because you wanted to listen to my voice as you fell asleep. And many of my most beloved people were far away from me, so I wrote letters, big yawping full long letters. I wrote Spanish epistles of madness, long rolling documents full of cartoons and poems. I started to write letters to people I saw anyway. Rockie Lee wrote me round letters in a spiral with purple or pink ink. Other bad poets wrote duels with me. Writing. It grew and grew. I was frantic to escape, and I developed a faith that writing would carry me. And it did. I wrote myself out of San Diego to Harvard in 1982.
In a while will the smile on my face turn to plaster? / Stick around while the clown who is sick does the trick of disaster. / Though the race of my head and my face is moving much faster. / Is it strange I should change? I don't know, why don't you ask her.
I will try to offer you some gathering chapters about writing and this writer this year in this blog. Let's write a book together. You let me know what you are curious about, and I'll answer it. I'll give you The Updates. Gossip and haiku and trivial crap--which is all stuff I enjoy. But I also want to write. As if I don't write anough already. You might have noticed some of the entries in the archive are really some kind of pieces of a book...or books. Why stop? Life is short, but writing is not.
By the way, I'm 2/3 of the way through Broken Angels. UIC goes back in session next week, so I don't know if I can keep up this blistering pace. But the deepest most dangerous part of the book is upon me.
Is it strange I should change? I don't know, why don't you aske her.
L
1/03/2007
Have you ever listened to Porcupine Tree? They have a song that says: "The creator had a master tape / But he left it in a cab. / I stared into the void tonight / The best dream I ever had."
That's what it's like writing House of Broken Angels.
I am half-way through it already, and I veer from thinking it's brilliant to thinking it's the worst book in America. It definitely goes places I don't want to go. As usual, with me, it's about Grace...but it's dirty and awful. I told my editor it's like my beloved HBO show, "Deadwood." If you can see through the violence, cussing, dirt, sex and depravity, you can see it's a story full of odd sweetness and spirituality. Can you find Heaven when you're wallowing in Hell? Probably not. But you can see Heaven. You can see it! (In one of CS Lewis's books, you can take a bus tour from Hell to Heaven...a new form of torment, perhaps.) So what happens if one of the denizens of Hell sees Heaven and is trying to find a rope ladder to climb up there? How does he carry a few of his friends and enemies with him? Do gang-bangers go to Heaven? Do junkies have Zen? Can a guitarist who runs from all his deepest connections find out he's some sort of Barrio Bodhisattva? Does Jesus sometimes cruise in a low-rider? Are there some sins that cannot be forgiven? Hmmm. Worst book in America, like I said. Praise Quetzalcoatl!
I once asked Pastor Von (the hero of Across the Wire and By the Lake of Sleeping Children) what he had learned after all these long years serving God. Was there one word I needed to know? One word that would sum up the whole story of our troubled lives on earth? And he thought for a short moment, and he said: "Reconciliation."
It's funny, when you delve into the Dark Matter, you have to be careful that the darkness doesn't inhabit you. Or, in my case, re-inhabit. Devils swarm like little iron wasps with bat wings. They think the doom and hopelessness are funny. So you need to be careful. What's that old line about peering into the abyss (the void)? Beware that the abyss isn't peering into you.
Oddly enough, though, thisis the funniest book I've ever written. It's enough to make you crazy. Speaking of "Deadwood," Cinderella gave me the boxed set for Christmas, so I can go to my favorite show all the time. Not only the boxed set, but David Milch's book about the series, which is a great little writing workshop if you're at all interested in the vision behind something interesting. It's all homework for me, and I study hard. And, once I get through Broken Angels, assuming I don't jump off a bridge, I'll get to the poetry and Hummingbird II. Perhaps fans of that story will be over their shock by then and will be able to read it.
This year, homies, I am rated NC-17!
What I'm listening to: The Beatles, "Love."
Adieu, Louis XIV
That's what it's like writing House of Broken Angels.
I am half-way through it already, and I veer from thinking it's brilliant to thinking it's the worst book in America. It definitely goes places I don't want to go. As usual, with me, it's about Grace...but it's dirty and awful. I told my editor it's like my beloved HBO show, "Deadwood." If you can see through the violence, cussing, dirt, sex and depravity, you can see it's a story full of odd sweetness and spirituality. Can you find Heaven when you're wallowing in Hell? Probably not. But you can see Heaven. You can see it! (In one of CS Lewis's books, you can take a bus tour from Hell to Heaven...a new form of torment, perhaps.) So what happens if one of the denizens of Hell sees Heaven and is trying to find a rope ladder to climb up there? How does he carry a few of his friends and enemies with him? Do gang-bangers go to Heaven? Do junkies have Zen? Can a guitarist who runs from all his deepest connections find out he's some sort of Barrio Bodhisattva? Does Jesus sometimes cruise in a low-rider? Are there some sins that cannot be forgiven? Hmmm. Worst book in America, like I said. Praise Quetzalcoatl!
I once asked Pastor Von (the hero of Across the Wire and By the Lake of Sleeping Children) what he had learned after all these long years serving God. Was there one word I needed to know? One word that would sum up the whole story of our troubled lives on earth? And he thought for a short moment, and he said: "Reconciliation."
It's funny, when you delve into the Dark Matter, you have to be careful that the darkness doesn't inhabit you. Or, in my case, re-inhabit. Devils swarm like little iron wasps with bat wings. They think the doom and hopelessness are funny. So you need to be careful. What's that old line about peering into the abyss (the void)? Beware that the abyss isn't peering into you.
Oddly enough, though, thisis the funniest book I've ever written. It's enough to make you crazy. Speaking of "Deadwood," Cinderella gave me the boxed set for Christmas, so I can go to my favorite show all the time. Not only the boxed set, but David Milch's book about the series, which is a great little writing workshop if you're at all interested in the vision behind something interesting. It's all homework for me, and I study hard. And, once I get through Broken Angels, assuming I don't jump off a bridge, I'll get to the poetry and Hummingbird II. Perhaps fans of that story will be over their shock by then and will be able to read it.
This year, homies, I am rated NC-17!
What I'm listening to: The Beatles, "Love."
Adieu, Louis XIV
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