Nowadays it often seems writing is nothing at all. Sometimes I realize that if writing isn’t, all things, all contraries confounded, a quest for vanity and void, it’s nothing. That if it’s not, each time, all things confounded into one through some inexpressible essence, then writing is nothing but advertisement.
There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open…no artist is pleased. [There is no] satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
Rooster Toot stumbled hoot owl drunk into the meeting a few minutes late. Eyes twitched but jaws did not drop. This sort of thing was pretty much the norm. The fuckers were discussing parking spaces, which did not concern Rooster Toot as he did not own a vehicle. He was the drunken buffoon pedestrian about town, sexy in a silly ass way in his custom made t-shirts and boxer shorts. Because Rooster Toot was impotent, thus never turning his boxer shorts into obscene pup tents, he was allowed to gallivant around Smoky Valley in his underwear. Back to the custom made t-shirts: simple, really…Rooster Toot would buy basic white t-shirts, cut the sleeves off and write words and phrases on the front of the shirts in black permanent marker. This particular evening Rooster Toot was wearing a shirt emblazoned with TEDIOUS, jellyfish boxers, dirty yellow socks and mismatched running shoes (one was blue and yellow, the other was red and black).
“My god, people. There really isn’t much room for error,” Sugar Wallace said.
“That’s easy for you to say but I drive two different cars and both are high profile, consequently invoking envy and rage,” Harry Coolio said.
Lester White and Nadia Lincoln exchanged smirks.
“The big picture is blurry, out of focus,” Loretta Collins said. Her fingernails had never looked better. She was wearing a smashing new rayon dress that accentuated her perky breasts and hips, which were exactly the right size, conveyed the correct idea.
“Bullshit!” Rooster Toot screamed. He jumped up on a chair and pulled up his shirt, exposing his nipples and belly button. Vanessa Childers laughed but she was in new in town. She didn’t know anything yet.