W. G. Sebald  (The Rings of Saturn) wrote:

                                             '' . . . if asked, one could not say whether one . . . writ(es) purely out of habit, or a craving for admiration, or because one knows not how to do anything other, or out of sheer wonderment, despair or outrage, any more than one could say whether writing renders one more perceptive or more insane.''

a fuckin menu

                he was partial towards ‘ . . . not (knowing) how to do anything (else)’ and 'writing renders one more . . . insane’

       figuring in sane  was a handful of ass better than sane

that was his grasp since the Chicago painter took a paintbrush from out of his hand   

--   Stop stop stop This wont do Youre not a painter Is there something else you like to do to express yourself

--   I like to write

--   Did you know that writers can also be considered artists

his head was shaking before he answer -- No I . . . I thought an artist was a painter  or sculptor

--   No Incorrect Anyone who uses a medium any medium to reveal and relay their perceptions OF ANYTHING is an artist You are not going to be a painter the brush in your hand is Im sorry queer You like to write Fine Wonderful I want you to go home and write for me something about anything Then lets take a look at it together next week when you return to cut the lawn again

about anything 

                 the old man cast a wide net

                                                                                             

he stuffed his earnings three dollar bills into the front pocket of his jeans 

                                                                              the neighborhood bullies were always looking for a kid to shake down and if they wanted his money theyd have to go through his fists

                                                              

he turned the reel lawnmower over onto its face to walk it home

the cloth grasscatcher slumped onto the spine of its wooden handle its jangling irritated him more than the whine of its blades spinning in air 

                                                                                           

what to write what to write

he fleshed it out longhand on a brown paper bag and as he rewrote it he needed a couple more grocery bags

the characters kept wanting to have their own way

they won in the end

it wasnt what he wanted to write but rewriting and rereading it time and time again he was happy he let them have their way

it was better than what he originally imagined

he used his fathers steel-caged Underwood and rapped out the completed story on two fingers

when he was finished they were bruised

they hurt when he picked up his knife and fork at dinner

--   Working em a little gingerly arent you his father asked

--   Yeah I havent got the stuff  Im not cut out to be a secretary

--   Yeah Youd look like hell in a skirt

--   Sweet guy dad

--   Sorry Stating the obvious huh

the weekend was letting out

it was a good thing he had school to get him through the rest of the week before hed see Mr Wappler again

he might have seen him early mornings on his paper route but Monday hed ensconce himself in his studio

Mrs Wappler had placed his breakfast tray beside the door on a wooden crate  if he wanted it

Mrs Wappler teased him that Mr. Wappler wasnt keen on her cooking thats why he lost weight when he was working  caught up in his passion                        

she caught the expression on his face . . . 

                                            he was surprised a little slow on the uptake   

she was a good looking woman very shapely

and for whatever reason shape always captured his attention

shape face and then what she had going on inside her head

in that order

if he wasnt physically attracted nothing was going to happen

if she hadnt a brain an imagination thereafter  nothing was going to happen either 

he figured everyone had hurtles 

                                  made hurtles 

                                                 and a lot of hurtles were failed because they were only hurtles in name painted realistically on tall stone walls topped with razorwire by winking eyelashes their hands over their mouths stifling ill laughter and then muting or guiding aside ugly remarks and mockings

why he knew that he couldnt say    

                                                               . . . . laughing she said -- Im his second passion

--   He is a passionate man

--   He likes that you werent put off by him telling you you werent a painter

--   Its hard

--   Its harder than most people think You werent hurt

--   I was struggling But Ive already finished the writing Mr Wappler assigned me

--   Assigned I wont tell him you said assigned and dont you either Hell be hell to live with all full of himself

--   Wasnt he a teacher

--   Did he say that

--   No But he was willing to take me on when I asked him if he could teach me to paint

--   Youre sweet He cant teach anymore than he could be taught to paint Thats what people buy when they buy his art Hes selling pieces of himself

--   Wont he run out of himself at some point

--   No Hes like an artesian well he goes deep deep down I think if you could drop a stone in him youd never hear it hit bottom just the pure silence of it falling

--   You know that

--   Dont I  dont you Dont you really somewhere inside you Ive always told him he doesnt paint thats not paint on his canvases its his blood humor and tears A man doesnt keep himself away fromthose he loves unless he loves what hes doing even more than they

there was nothing to say

he smiled

she smiled

damn if she didnt have dimples too

1942,  Saturday,  5  7. 14