I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen, looking at my blog. I think the presentation is improved somewhat: it’s cleaner, less busy, easier to read. Now my thoughts flow to content. What’s missing, do you think? Maybe some things I learned on TV today, but Odd Todd is already doing that. Repetition is the death of art. I thought maybe some really rigorously honest true facts about myself. Too gruesome.

Baby, there’s an enormous crowd of people

They’re all after my blood

Three Dog Night, yeah. A sense of his place. … As Anne Lamott wrote in Bird by Bird, the cheese stands alone, but decides to take a few notes. Which with irrefutable rationality brought me around to Bullwinkle:

Hey Rocky! Watch me pull a rabbit out of a hat!

Okay okay, you wanna know what I did today?

–Woke up late, residual effects of yesterday’s serious suckage.

–Turned over and dozed another hour, feeling – as Holden Caulfield would put it, “blue.”

–Got up, read e-mail, showered, gave the doggie her medicine.

Wait, let’s get back to that “blue” thought. Ever see the paintings of George Rodrigue? He’s a really talented painter. Blue dogs, you see. Has a gallery, up the coast, in Carmel. Check out one of his paintings:

http://www.georgerodrigue.com/loupgarou.jpg

Blue reminds me, have you checked out my little story, How to Eat an Orange? Wait, don’t read it. It actually mentions eating an orange. More than once. I wish I had one right now! I’m thirsty and an orange would taste wonderful; a good one, from Dad’s tree. So don’t read that. Instead, go and read Frank O’Hara’s poem Why I Am Not A Painter.

view/add comments (0) :: updated Tuesday, 17 February 2004 01:38 AM GMT-08 ::