what fuels me? hair shooting out of the ears of an otherwise impeccably groomed old man. the smell of a towel that brings me back to a day thirty years ago in glenview with my cousins, a day i otherwise would have never recalled. impossibly small tomatoes, only a bit bigger than pomegranate seeds, which i just bought at trader joes. the simple joy of opening my eyes in the morning knowing despite anything i have another chance to wrestle another sentence onto the page.
i write to have just a little tangible proof i was here yesterday.
many authors, many books. i try to read at least one short story per day, usually more, usually from a literary journal. my full sized bed houses only me now, so where i wish i might find a lover whose breasts leave my sheets smelling lovely, i now have twenty or forty books, which i dip into every day. tonight it might be philip roth or gary taube or le carre or a collection from a writer with whom i have no previous relationship, but whom i hope to fall for after a page or two.
Mark - "sourhours" - - it is what I experience going through security on every flight. The only times I haven't been "frisked" was at the Munich airport (go figure, the Germans! and no see-through, see-all body scan) and in Croatia, where, I guess, all the duty-free liquor we were carrying gave me a free pass.
Welcome Mark. "i write to have just a little tangible proof i was here yesterday." Very cool.