Sure I'm King Squid on the keys, but what good can that be? Amuse others? OK, where do I come in?" he asked in solemn tone as he kicked his feet about the stage and stared at midget spirits lined along the tow lines. "Stage left."
Stage left. That's where he'd enter, the scene packed with all trappings and trimmings of the art before him; the song, the sorrow and merriment, the horror, the endurability of it all. He looked back to when he had first read the script, all of three months ago. It was a spectacle in letters, and something quite more now that production scampered ever closer to the carrot of opening night; when he would enter to a flourish of horns, bells, and kazoos. Stage Left.
These are not tears, nor rain,
not a cloud nor pain,
could cause these drops
or shudder to the starry tops
of the hickory..
.............tree.
Blanks worth two.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
No comments:
Post a Comment