So you're going to do the right thing finally and quit this ridiculous cloying internet writer-buddy thing. If it took a season like you had to get that final kick in the ass, well, damn. I can't hope for the same. It would kill me.
No, I can't lighten it by trying to be clever. My mechanistic unbelieving heart goes out to you and your family and I just hope things go according to a greater plan than any man can devise, heavy on the mercy and the joy. God knows there seems to be enough strength in your family. Is it strength from which flows faith and hope and love? I think so.
If I could charge you with anything it would be that you email a chapter out now and then, whether of stomping biker wannabes or interrogating brokedick first offenders or taking yourself and all the readers back into the mist that still rises over the killing fields or some other damn thing I could never have thought of. Whether or not the pieces fit together doesn't matter. They will fit together anyway. The broader narrative will become clear once the pieces are set out.
Other'n that it's my belief that the only people who should not go to Burning Man are either tourists, or dickwads who think it will be too hot or dusty or inconve-e-enient. Because it's damn inconvenient, it's meant to be, and it's indescribably fun, and even the mildly curious who aren't tourists or dickwads should go discover in what unique way the scene will be nothing like they expected it to be. You just can't hope that leathery old biker farts chasing limber, tattooed redheaded babes with warrior paint makeup and electrical tape X's on their tits will stand out particularly so you will have to make arrangements ahead of time in order to find me. I truly hope you do.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
What he said.
Well done.
Ditto
Damn.
Cheers and hugs.
What Hope said.
Post a Comment