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
