Our metaphors are loose in the breeze. When I say "breeze" I mean the ease of poetry, poetry flashing uncut elbows, unclipped anything—sheer growth: the bottom of the pit of oneself floating along, health good - fortunately or unfortunately - the pain of pleasure apparent in the pen. Ball pens write too smoothly, the secret of their business success.
The availability of everything when you're not in some civil war, is rampant, filling the bushels full, that is, the availability of cheap things that it takes to create. You have your mind don't you? I don't have mine. And you can afford a pen, a brush, a spigot — would you like to be published by Faucet? Ball in Time? Wampum House? Prissy Hall? Signing & Sueing? Belch Publishing Company? Twink, Louse & Screw? How about Barf? That's an old house. Or Squigglers & Sons. Don't forget Happy & Slow. They're the biggest. They're all waiting to suck up academic dust. A nude display of writer orgasms offends them. They must make money off your remains. It's a giant cold shoulder to sob on.
Don't waste your time. Remove your mind (it takes will power) — it only tells you where to go. The road to hell is paved with good ambitions. Relax. Listen to a raga. Forget about it. Bake bread. Take a bath. Work will entail shoving creativity out of your mind. Just to survive the job. Go back to pre-art. Conversation & drink. Briefing for the day. Letting the dog out. Feeding the turkeys. Cooking the chicken. How will I cook it, let me count the ways.
So, let me know what you think.
larry goodell/ written 14Nov85 but re-pondering now.
