So, no memory of Halloween? Nothing that I want to remember. Darth Vader, White Power Ranger, church. My art, words, whatever stayed locked away for, well, do I have anything on a bookshelf yet? And painting, uh… “Art, The Persistence Of Memory”
Monday, October 31, 2022
Saga 122 ~Art, The Persistence Of Memory~
Two-Hundred and Sixty-Fourth Rule
Madam Justice
I AM a Billionaire right now, and while I’m sure I own something from Salvador Dalí, I had to look up this quote.
Stephen King. At this moment, I’m pretty sure nothing I’ve written, even about my boy, would do a quarter as well as any of his books. And yet I remember Braxton, my son, always and forever. And I keep in mind why I’m sitting here with you today, Madam J. How can I best describe, as Forrest Gump put it? The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I think this stops me from being a “published” writer. Not a fear of failure. It’s the fact that I don’t deserve to do this. Madam, I make everything dumb with an Um, Useless, or fucking Ugly. Pardon my language. But while we’re on the subject. There’s perverted, my pornographic passions, or something about my penis. Yeah ew
You can read all about it in last week’s sagas. I know that I won’t be reading it for real. Hell! I can’t tell you about the previous two books I read. That one from Barby Keel… It was more about her than her dog, and there were her yabbos too. Titties, I swear, Madam. Anyway. The books after that were both the same, mourning fur babies. Grieving is beautiful? Well, it keeps me from having to look at myself in the mirror some mornings. One more reason I hate the Day Job besides all the time travel I have to do all for Virgil. Yeah, I’m keeping him alive now. I’m starting to sound bitter comparing him and B III. I’m no masterpiece, either.
A writer, an artist, a canvas, a subject, all the above, or nothing at all. Best left unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Walter Scott, yes, but Groundhog Day, my artistic knowledge. Mutts… I wouldn’t say that about Virgil but definitely not my Braxton, but I write. Manuscripts, one after the other. And I couldn’t tell you what about ever. Waste, Madam. Mammaries which I spend far too much time on. If you want to know where I’ve been even in having this conversation with you. Torturing myself, edging, fucking around, ok. Money, of course, is a valid concern. I won’t do the things to make it, and then the Day Job? Off the top of my head, my artistic vision. Memories. Art, The Persistence Of Memory
638 Days Without B III, Day 079 of Virgil’s Arrival
BLM Braxton’s Life Matters,
Will