Once you decide you are an artist – and mean it – the rest falls away like the clothes of a lover. – Barker Ajax
The nerve of some people. Just because he says he’s my doctor.
He asked me a question I often ask myself, why do you write?
Good question. That’s why he has the paneled-office with the Scandanoovian furniture in a light oak.
I write because I cannot sing or play piano or draw or whistle or whittle.
I feel creative. Like I am going to burst if I don’t let it out.
That’s not true. Keeps me out of trouble, gets me into trouble.
Got fired from my own magazine. Wrote a hugely popular newspaper column all the advertisers hated.
Published a critically-acclaimed, award-winning compendium nobody bought.
Whatever. Blah, blah. Doesn’t matter.
Thought out of nowhere.
Part of the problem is many people are trying to do this sober.
That’s a whole different thing.
If it’s fun, does it matter if anybody reads it?
I am an optimist, I know this about myself, and I am convinced somebody, somewhere, sometime, will read my words.
At the very least, I expect a response.
This is good… this is interesting… this is shit.
Maybe there’s a pony, did you ever think of that?
I am the artist who puts the note in the bottle and sets it off in the outgoing tide.
Thinking a really hot babe will pick it up on a sunny beach and wish she could rescue me.
I am the grandfather with some smart offspring who might find my eternal wisdom on The Cloud.
Wherever the hell that is.
And they’ll think… wow, DooDah was an amazing hero.
Okay, maybe… what a loser, and remember he was Nana’s second husband.
I’ll take my chances.
Let’s be honest, one of the reasons guys like us write is so as-many-people-as-possible discover how fuckin’ cool we are.
How many people does it take to make you cool?
Never forget to remember, if you have to announce how cool you are, you can’t be cool.
Notice I have taken money right off the table. Not on the table.
If you are twenty to whatever, it’s back on the table.
I am like a million years old, money has lost its charm.
I say that, because I learned long ago, money has no idea where I live.
Can’t find me.
At this advanced age, would be nice to find more money in my cigar box under the mattress.
Those home health nurses don’t come cheap.
What I hope happens, what is likely to happen, what probably happens, doesn’t really much matters.
Particularly if you don’t do the work.
Said this before, still true, I’ll be dead, still waiting…
Spent most of my life waiting to be discovered.
Imagine my surprise to learn, nobody was looking for me.
Doesn’t mean I’m lost.
The nerve of some people.
Asking me questions I long ago stopped asking myself.
Who are you? I am a writer.
Very old. Cool like ice. Took me all my life to get here.
Like those glaciers that break off crying.
Hate to learn somebody came looking for me and I left no clues.
My words are bread crumbs and gun shot residue.