I am writing this in longhand.
The air is heavy. I wish it would rain. I wish it would rain on the eclipse.
I am reading two literary biographies at the moment: Dorothy Parker and Ross MacDonald. The former loved dogs and scotch; the latter was a former high school English teacher who loved birds. Prince wrote about a song about Dorothy Parker and it’s called “Dorothy Parker.” Not too many musicians have written songs about writers although writers write about musicians and songs all the time. The 10,000 Maniacs sang a fun song about Jack Kerouac and The Hold Steady wrote a rocking song about the poet John Berryman (his suicide). Why hasn’t anyone written a song about Rachel Carson, Colette or Thoreau? Maybe someone has. Enlighten me please, but don’t Google it. Tap your knowledge base accrued through hard study.
I might also add that Ross MacDonald was instrumental in saving the Californian condor from extinction and taking a fierce conservation stand on the historic Santa Barbara oil spill. There’s a mystery in that for sure. A mystery writer who cares about the watershed.
That’s the mystery novel I will write.
Werner Herzog’s Of Walking in Ice is might be the greatest mesmerizing book I have ever read and it was written by a German filmmaker.
I am also reading Pablo Neruda’s memoir. It reads like a river of passion.
I once met a female poet of confessional love poetry who had never read Neruda, never heard of him. She’s a millionaire these days, giving passionate advice about love.
I hear distant sounds of hammering, trucks, vacuuming, dropped tools and commerce.
I wrote another 1000 words on Oregon tavern age life. I wonder if anyone ever reads them? How will I get that book out?
I just hit 57 unsuccessful job applications.
Mint picked from a yard and crushed into whiskey is bliss.
I wonder if I have lost my right to vote.
There is a deep soul sickness in Astoria. It’s in all the papers but the paper here never reports it.
The rummage sale for the dog sanctuary is today and tomorrow in Warrenton. I hope they exceed their goal.
I just caught a whiff of skunk.
I want to write a dystopian short story where an authoritarian regime has banned corduroy and macrame because it makes the people less likely to conform. There will be a revolution.
I wish I owned one of the macrame tennis racket covers that were popular in the 70s.
Lots and lots of press about the eclipse. The media is missing the most interesting story. That story is who doesn’t care about the eclipse and will be sitting in an OTA joint in the Path of Totality when the eclipse occurs and sipping a Crown and Coke.
There is one special person I know who loves Crown and Coke.
Again, I ask: why can’t people do their jobs? I think it’s because they never wanted to do this particular job. It debases them. Or they debase the job because they aren’t worthy of the job. I saw that a lot in teachers over the years.
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