Do you really have to go out and get it?
Aren't there enough people already out there, trying to grab a hold of their self conceived, righteously perceived bounty?
What if you don't like crowds? Bustling, hustling, rustling feathers?
Business lunches, scheduled get-togethers?
What if you're adverse to taking calls, meet and greets?
And you never bother to update post or send out tweets?
What if you're the kind of person who prefers to read... books!?
Prefers to eat alone, think in peace, avoids the crowds, do as he pleases?
An outsider, an observer, a dreamer, a foot soldier... gone AWOL, never to be found?
One of those spectres, the ones you don't see round.
What if he is all that but still would like to taste...
Victory for a change.
Could that not be arranged?
Why, his dues are paid - well in advance.
Sure, when he was younger, you say, he had ample chances.
Did he waste it? His youth?
Did he squander it?
Tell the truth.
He didn't. He has never stopped trying.
He has invested his soul and his time in creating his works.
He has devoted his being to seeing what works.
He experiments, pushes boundries, believes in what he is doing.
Don't you see that? He's devoted, he's focused, still searching for true meaning.
The man is a poet, he's a painter, a romantic, for chrissake!
Give him some hope now, come on! - give him a break.
He's one of the good ones, he cares, he's authentic.
He's not going to beg, though, or compromise his beliefs.
Maybe that's the problem. Too principled, idealistic.
He still reads comics, you know.
And he talks to himself.
Sometimes, he cries. Shhhh...
If this was a dating site, these admissions may help.
But he refuses to seek romance that way.
Yeah, yeah, an idealist. A dreamer, a romantic. Ho hum.
What is this shit, anyway? This whole thing?
Some kind of bla bla bla? For who's sake?
For god's sake, wake up, lad! (In an Irish accent.) (With or without face slap SFX.)
He's decide to free write. To let it out. To not stop. To not edit.
Not a good idea, some would say.
But he doesn't listen.
You should have worked that out by now.
But he does listen. Especially to things worth hearing.
Like birds. And the sea crashing to shore.
And melifluous voices, especially if accompanied by an alluring face.
He's going mushy!
The whole exercise is going to shit!
But does he care?
Not about images. Except the ones he makes. And looks at. Artworks and the like. Art galleries, book stores.
This has become a dating site! OMG.
James Salter died this week. James Salter - he was a real writer. His words - oh, wow. Profound. Moving. Ethereal.
He wouldn't be into this. Or maybe he would. Now, anyway. Now he's dead. Standards drop, apparently.
Riffing. Like rap or hip hop. What's the difference again?
Like one of those, anyway, without the backing track.
Or the anger. Indignation.
The dude is mellow.
Maybe too mellow.
Which brings us back to the original assertion.
How hard to try? And what for?
Maybe better to just be yourself and let things happen as they will.
Maybe better just to go with the flow.
Sometimes just a trickle.
Or a droplet.
No drugs used in the transcribing of this inner monologue gone wrong. This escapee, barfing, ramshackle concoction of stream of conscious piss taking soliloquy.
None needed no more.
Man has evolved. Into maniac.
But that's it, isn't it.
There is freedom being expressed here. Freedom being enjoyed. Fun being had. Play.
Do I care about being acknowledged, rewarded for my efforts with my writing and my art?
Or do I just want to have fun?
But if there can only be one?
Fun! Fun! Fun!
Let's leave it at that.
For kids at heart.
Mmmmm....! (Homer voice.)
Let's have some of that.