A writer, a human, can only be who they will be. I may be sick. I have, like most, taken for granted, this ability of sight, never honestly trying to understand the blind, merely congratulating them with surviving. The fact is, that many of the most pure and gifted of artists who have ever lived have… Continue reading You are only who you are and what the world will have you become.
Tag: art
Writing by dead writers, David Foster Wallace
Waiting for the women (Draft Page)
Close your eyes. Snap! And By fat boys, I mean the townies, the posers, the lame ducks of my sad and pathetic generation, the dollar bill dreamers. Start with laughter, I'm only a writer. And wasnt that romantic, what a picture that was, I was leaving and taking shots of whiskey and shots of the digital variety of the time… Continue reading Waiting for the women (Draft Page)
What is the Universe? Are You (a) Writer? I Don’t know…
My family is old. I am old. This is something I wrote, suffering. No longer, Now, Suffering. Spontaneous prose as is… Body hurts and girl in bed, dog in bed…I sit here to type some words on new typewriter, only destiny, only my life, and how does a man become honest with himself? These are… Continue reading What is the Universe? Are You (a) Writer? I Don’t know…
The Earth Moves You (draft page)
Now, being the writer-man as the night pulses and friends light off fireworks into the last great summer day that you can remember. “And Henry, you tubed today” she said , and yeah I did tube, I’m a tuber. Now you’re you, a writer tuba diver drinker writer man, and you know why, because you… Continue reading The Earth Moves You (draft page)
Adventures In American Writing 