I was asked recently, Via facebook, where I write. meaning if there was a place as part of a ritual with my writing. As where it isn’t ritualized and I write anywhere, diners, the car, on my bed, in the yard – where ever, you see the inspira moves around a bit. But the majority of it is done in a little room, painted red at the back of my house in a secluded part of Elgin.
a painting of mine – the sides and top are cut off so it’s like watching a letterbox movie in pan and scan – I face this when I write or it is in front of me but I face the page.
My IBM Selectric III in it’s newest position with a stack of poetry and prose under a brass monkey reading a book. My return address on a stamp.
within reach. Normally there is a coffee cup there but I wasn’t writing at the time, a stack of nice paper that my wife keeps me in, a page a day, a XDm 9mm – loaded, an old hunting knife, the Bose remote, meditation beads under the page a day tear outs, a frog reading a book, white out and Maitreya Buddha holding my mechanical pencil. and scratch paper.
any questions?
sometimes it’s a colt .45 or a .38 special but all the rest is a constant.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 