And as soon as he finished his last statement I found myself wandering in the park. I walked like a cursed sailor as I rummaged side to side, don’t tell me how to listen, don’t listen to how you think! So much all at once my whole life spilled over, in nice little bundle without a title page. I know how insane it is for writers to write about authors, because you see it all the time. Are all authors so conceited to only see their own footsteps? Is it really that difficult to be a struggling writer? Oh look how sad I am using words like “desolate” when I need a space to fill in. Is it the writing that makes life difficult? Just the printing of a page? Or are all writers as melodramatic, as sponges when placed on a warm surface, soaking up gingerade? So hard, to explain what im saying, when what I’m feeling shows through the impressions of the ink. When I don’t know who to trust, and how to check the vitality of things. I wish I wasn’t so hard to get along with, I wish people liked to see my face. My dry sense of approval and my prose way of phrasing things. So silly, when manipulated by something you want to control.
I want somebody to push me, I want somebody to pull. If I can find somebody to push me, maybe somebody will pull.
Oh don’t get me started on him, and his fancy new diner shortage. What I could say if I wasn’t so tired if I got insomnia today I could work all night, but I’ve been running far to long in, this day of the dilution, the day of reality taking its place.
“I told you not to where red with that ketchup stain!”
I love cherry yogurt, so delicious sitting in my mouth. As I was walking inside I stared at the sky trying to absorb all that I could see. I felt so big as if I could put my arms out and encompass everything. I closed my eyes and tried and tried... Graceful ecstasy, when bellowing form fitting sight seeing….
The Authors Sketchbook
By Guy Mourning
Chapter 1: Sight seeing
Keylime pie is a flavor not a pie, coming in many sizes from diner side chitchat to elegant cigars. Another evening city smoking a big and hard, so relaxing in the taste and the offering of a smoked filled bar; mixed with recklessness and long filling hollowed out parts; washed down with ice tea and coffee in one swallow one mouth.
I started reading the book I’ve been writing and the words just turned into streams of my mind. Too hot to concentrate everyone hear is breathing too loud. It seems everyone I know is becoming a teacher, everyone who can’t decide. I probably will become a teacher, if my writing doesn’t take hand outs, and even if it does, what else to do beside reading in the park? Deviling in the pleasures of man only last until it hurts to sleep again, till your hair feels to soft to move with the breeze, till pie taste like cardboard and nothing is worth mentioning except the weather, and who won the Oscars and why no one cares.
I’m an author so its just natural to be negative. I think everyone has a bit of an author buried inside. If like culture depends on birth, cultivation depends on earth.
*Why don’t we, at least start: somewhere I consider important*
This hotel is so lonely; every hotel is lonely. I’m trying to make it down this hallway, I’m trying to make it to a place I can hear my own face. Nothing seems to work, everything is broken, and nothing can be finished...just a bed and a television to put us to sleep. So lonely together listening to the humming of this elevator all alone in this place: forced false provision. In plastic I see everything.
My feet are aching and the pressure on my hands still cut deep in my skin. I didn’t want to watch the television but I needed to know something was there in the background in the darkness that I missed.
I slept so restlessly I didn’t sleep at all I just moaned in the depth in-between my whaling on my bed
“Do you have a wash cloth or something?
“Is it everywhere?”
“Umm…yeah, there was a lot this time, this is
definiitely not my favorite part.”
“What do you mean, this is what it is all about,
“No this is not what it’s all about.”
“Yes it is, I give you mine, and you give me yours,” the young girl just looks back at him, knowingly, not knowing where he is going. “Of course you don’t give me nearly as much as I give you…and I don’t have the means to accept yours, the way you accept mine.
She said hesitantly blinking “Lets talk about something else.”
* Who Do You Slow To See
Maybe it was something I ate: to continue, you most concede