Albert

Writers are unfailing in their nature for making overtures to both overwhelming conviction and an underwhelming birth of it.

I wonder what type of atrocious conversation I might wheedle out of one of the greats if I chanced beside them at the bar. Of course I have never been worthy of the greats, time has seen to that.

Who she didn't kill by my birth, she killed before my awareness. How many times did I fall asleep with the letter to JD that I thought was worded just precisely enough to extract an actual answer? As though the man would have ever been moved to come outside ever again.

How many questions did I barter with my brain over which to ask Kurt, who actually might have answered?

To Scott, Mark, Oscar or Jane? To Charles, Edgar, Ernest, Albert and how many more?

I guess I'll have to pose an inquiry to Ms. Meyer, but only if I am in need of a good laugh.

My god! How childish, how green. What have you done? I am humbled.

- - -

"The gods come down onto the naked bodies and the islands are set adrift, lost souls crowned with the tousled hair of palm trees in the wind. Try it."

- - -

Tonight Albert Camus is the man I am thinking about more than others. Albert and his Absurdism, his fortunate unfortunate attachment.

Oddly enough, I'm also sparing thought and ears for the Beach Boys this evening. The two do not mix; I would not pair them. Somehow, in this hour, they halve my brain. Not for long I assume, the whiskey will see to that.

I take solace in knowing that Chuck is still out there, making men visible.