We were somewhere between San Francisco and our Santa Barbara destination. Your hands full of hose. Looking up in mischievous impatience, you catch my eyes and raise an eyebrow sensing a question.
“...I just never thought I’d see you siphoning gas from a strange car outside a biker bar in the middle of the night...”
“You think I was never a teenager?”
It was short walk from the apartment on Union Square to the village sandal shop that was run by Hells Angels. There is nothing more noble than a kneeling Angel as he traces your foot and asks,
“How long do you want the straps?”
I had an idea I wanted them very long, but didn’t know how to say without seeming like it was a lot of trouble. I imagine it was Kyle that broke my indecision by interrupting,
“She wants them to wrap up her legs and around her waist twice.”
The angel tilted his head up with a confused complexion,
“How would that look...”
Kyle pursed his lips, raised an eye brow, turned on one heel and began searching the notice board. The biker lumbered to his feet and embarrassingly asked if they could have the twenty-five bucks in advance.
I still have those simple leather Grecian sandals. In some places they are brittle from sea water and there’s a bit gnawed from Maine rodents that aches my heel when I wear them. But then, every pair of shoes has a story.
All of those Z Z looking guys have the choice of impersonating Santa or Bikers.
And ... I am wondering if, as children, future bikers used the card & clothespin trick on the spokes of their Stingray (with banana seats!) to get the Hog sound they would future fall in love with ...
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..." -Jack KerouacI have extrapolated a few favorites from
Some of My Best Friends
Offered at the BookWork blog,
punch over there on the thumbnail
entitled ARTIST'S BOOKS if you’d like to check them out.
I would normally look over a photo of this genré because of the alarmingly noticeable, vacuous absence, of a back drop. Pirate of Penzance, to be a L. Laughn production dates 1911. Unfortunately the names in copperplate handwriting is too faded to decipher. Hopefully thee players look more natural with stage makeup on and in the moment. There is a certain air to the young man, third standing, that took care in his sans-wing line good looks. And the gentleman front and center looks alarming casual even with his gun pointed up at his left ear.
Of course there is the annoyance of this photo being sideways in the frame ... trying, I could not correct it.
Do you mind?
His mother swore he would never enter a draft of any kind.
Hinesfortothen, he never caught a chill, was not used as an editor, nor shot by a speeding bullet.
Butyetasnow, he had managed to end up here.
Happy TT eve.
Much too phobic to have a serene view of death.
in patient / out patience
impatience / out of patience
At some point certain things seem to be important but not interesting.
Identify the myth and eat the shadow.
Minotaur : There is a Shadow of a Monster on the Front Porch
Lunch with Minotaur - repeated here
In the past, not having the emotional equipment
to deflect it / it ran through me.
The painted faces accuse and mock but no longer damage. In this particular illusion, the labyrinth turned ware house is set for a late night critique. Painted faces all around and torches everywhere. A nudging voice asks if I brought a sack lunch.
I got that it would be a very long trial.
There is no satisfaction. Only a glorious dissatisfaction. There is no final touch that makes a work perfect. It will always remain perfectly and clearly unfinished. It is that absolute motivation that keeps one moving on.
Ok, so why hasn't anyone TOLD me this was such a sad song?
And kind of mean, too.
Chloe wanted to learn the rest of the song and so,
looked it up to copy it down.
I'm realizing that I haven't been posting much work.
I do put out a good amount of work, but have not been throwing it up on the screen.
I reckon its been a bit real-life lately. I'll correct this oversight.
What I learned at the opera today.
Navy and Black are rarely on speaking terms.
Adults do the potty dance, too.
When a sword doesn’t work, try an orange.
When you flood and dry the rake of the stage with soda for tack it
“does to” make a popping noise when you walk on it.
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