A Found Story: What Do You Say About It?

When you're done talking to the tree, say "Hello!" and go fly a kite. When you leave, remind yourself one great book is better than two crappy books. Fall asleep in your chair and fart so bad that you question the very concept of writing blogs. The Stoned Theory Of My Own Destruction doesn't suck. 

Read some of what Juliette had to say. She's read my story. Someone else who read my story is Jerry, and he's a little like me, but a better conductor.

I'm self-publishing next year, because it's publish and perish.

Wait Just A Cotton Pickin' Minute Here

The Function of Reading

Frog Legs -- as you digest my free musing mood, wondering what monstrous scientific experiment is about to be performed next -- stop, read and know time is how you live life through the acute awareness of the here and now. Frog Legs is actually a track from Cakewalk. Reminiscing a recent summer night, sitting back with a margarita in my hand, listening to Voodoo Walters magically fill the air with the sound of blues rhythm, I’m mesmerized again. I want to yell “Play it again,” and rage like a mad Blue Jays fan who doesn’t remember the Yankees dynasty or when I was a weary lover unable to express feelings in prose (and I'm still pretty pissed off about that). I get up and walk away.

WEARY LOVER

Over time I've been

Hiding behind a naked maple tree,

A silly disguise, sliding down 

A steep hill to where it would lie.

Finding it every time without telling a soul,

Hoping you would discover me.

The birds would fly to southern skies

And you behind a branch or two,

So beautiful like a flower that faded before

As I arrange an array of roses,

Flowers in my heart where I silently cry;

The wood ages after years

But still I go looking not wearing my mask.

And I would find this place,

Running after dreams

That I would chase.

Chasing flowers turned into demons in my head, I stop everything. I just fucking stop, wondering, if time is how you live life, then why do I own a useless collection of cheap imported watches. A stop sign. I stop my idle constipated procrastination, looking in all directions before crossing the street, I move my old feet and walk through Kensington Market with a drunken swagger. With a heart of darkness, I'm finding myself deeper in the heart of Toronto. Buzzing about On The Road, it's a hot topic of discussion among sweaty locals. On The Road Again was a hit country song. I would review the book and talk about the Beat Generation, but I want to dig deeper and finish reading Naked Lunch and Mexico City Blues. Naked Lunch is staring in front of me. I open the book and I'm slowly reading. I sober up, but now intoxicating words are dancing in my head. As I order another water, it's so fucking hot and I'm uncomfortable reading about the bastard doctor in the book. I want to read on because the words are like music and medicine. Blues or country or anything with a heartbeat is pretty much on my playlist since I’m motivated to do nothing, other than read or drive on the Q.E.W. and imagine it’s the L.A. Freeway and I’m in the Hollywood of my mind. I would love to sign a book deal, knowing I’m too old to narrate the teen protagonist in Beyond The Blue Kite, I'm wondering if anybody would want to listen to the audiobook.

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 2

The teenage years slipped away from Wyatt. He had barely finished high school, but would never miss a traffic jam at the community channel. His hard work paid off as he would report some of the finest traffic collisions in Texas history. 

One day, he was riding into work, but when he went to dismount and strut into the community channel building, his manager came flying around the corner. "Whoa," he hollered. Absentmindedly driving in to start his day at work, the manager hopped a curb and crashed into Bobby Joe, causing major internal injuries. Wyatt lost his prize-winning horse and went on to do the traffic, but cried at work that day. His camerawoman and manager laughed at him for being a big baby. The traffic man was left with a bitter taste in his mouth. It was never the same.

Wyatt continued his traffic reporting career; but his heart wasn’t in Wheelerville, and he never followed directions from his TV producer. Sometimes he could be heard sulking in the corner of the studio, whistling a depressed country tune.

It was a hot and humid summer afternoon in Wheelerville and Wyatt had finished reporting for the day. “And that’s the traffic in your neck of the woods. I’m going to Marilyn’s Mercantile.”

The stout woman quickly turned off the camera. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Have a good day,” he said and walked away with proud confidence.

The blue-eyed wrangler took off his cowboy hat. He sighed, brushed his gorgeous blonde locks and admired his hair and tight abdominal muscles. His stunningly handsome good looks were the trademark of traffic in Wheelerville. All he could do was admire his lean and well-toned body in one of many mirrors around the modest studio with historical appeal.

The 21-year-old would enjoy talking to himself, “What are you gonna do?” His mom was concerned about his attitude and she encouraged him to take up hobbies or try reading more. After the shoot was over, he feverishly talked to himself, “I’m gonna have myself a tuna fish sandwich and buy me my first book.” It was all about him and he loved to admire his fine acting chops.

Wyatt looked very hungry. He walked out of the studio room and proceeded out the back door of the friendly building. Slowly walking towards Marilyn’s Mercantile, there was drool coming out the side of his mouth, but he didn't know and couldn't wipe it away to save face. There were beaded lights shining on the shop entry doors that greeted him every day. After ordering his usual tuna fish sandwich, he browsed up and down the aisles of the half-empty shop. There were so many books. There were so many fashion magazines. Wyatt was very familiar with magazines. He loved to flip through the pictures of attractive women in advertisements of hip fashion magazines. Gazing at the top shelf, he looked at a book of poetry by Robert Frost. His eyes widened, undoubtedly remembering that being read to him in seventh grade. “I’ve taken that road before.” His mind was preoccupied.

A middle-aged woman turned around, looked at him and took note of the young man. The lonesome traffic reporter read the title to a book singing to him out of the blue. The book was called Forty Singing Seamen And Other Poems and the book almost cried out to him. He grabbed the book by Alfred Noyes and stood in the checkout line, but he was uncertain it would keep his interest and he wondered if this was the first book he would read. Giving up the internal debate, he bought the book and walked out of the store. He was desperate to give the book a good home.