And walking up to the hottest girl in the room and leaving with her. Immediately.
And painting roman columns on the living room walls. Cause we’re having a toga party.
And leaving the kitchen a condemned toxic waste zone of pancake batter and spaghetti. Only six hours after I’d cleaned the kitchen so it was spotless. He destroyed it in a brief manner of hours.
Man, I miss his insanity. It’s very possible that duplex on French Place I shared with Steve Cunliffe, Bryan Waters and Braettie Gainer — nicknamed the Hellhole — was the very first incarnation of the House of Dischord.
Sometimes, while crossing the Atlantic, the wind would disappear, and the sailors would drift, aimless on a dead sea with nothing to do but wait for the wind to come back. Sometimes, all you can do is wait for the wind.
Tossed and turned all night, anxious. About what? Don’t know.
My anxieties never play out with real world consequence. Perhaps I sense the impending collision of fate — a proximity alert for destiny. Perhaps, every time, the crash is narrowly avoided, a troubled night’s sleep left like skid marks on the road.
A gulf exists between creation and production. The urge to create has no link to the urge to produce. Just because I scribble something down, satisfied with its birth, doesn’t mean I’ll ever take the time to share it with anyone.
And the urge to produce, need not rely on one’s own urges to create. Publishers are driven to produce the creations of others with no regard for themselves.