Writing materials aren't just computers and pencils and pens and paper. You have to do something. You must live a bit. I am happy in my hermitage, but it doesn't help me write. I am forgetting the common language. I was listening to music last night while I was working on some photographs, and an old alt.country song came on, a twangy women's voice singing, "I can't have it back what I had then."
"Wow!" I thought. "I'm not writing lines like that any more." That's what happens when you are not with "the people." There is no excuse for not hanging with the Tea Party if you want to write. There is enough material there in a few moments to keep you going for weeks. A few days with them, a few nights hanging out in some hipster lounge. . . and boom!. . . I'd be back in business.
I need to get out and roll with the rough ones. I'm sick of the slimy, purring voices I hear at the Valet Parking Y, the blandness of the dialogs of doctors and lawyers and businessmen and soccer moms. I need a new kind of stupid for awhile.
The weather grows warmer and more humid. We are approaching hot here, and it is time to make some summer plans. I am bad at plans. But I think you have to make them any more if you want to go to places like Prague or Budapest. What used to be so simple has been made so difficult. I yearn for the old ease of travel when you just got on a plane and went somewhere.
Derrière Français. Have you ever paid attention to French mannequins? The shape is completely different from an American one. There is just a touch of scoliosis in them, I think, that turns the bottom of the spine inward and the rear end upward. Ms. Venezuela comes back to shoot tomorrow. I will get her to talk more. It is the closest I get to hearing things any more.
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