was a car wreck up the street. The ambulances took 10 million years
to get there. I heard messed up screeching car parts. Dirty,
burnt, tight skin stuck to bent metal smells slipped into my Hebrew
lungs. I checked it out. I saw this guy with his head cut. I saw this
other guy mangled and perched on the hood of a Chrysler 300.
His name was Clarence Tapwater. He took my finger and told me quickly
before he died...
"Create a myth around
you. And if you keep your mouth shut, they'll beat a path to your door.
Stop when things get heavy."
I have, Clarence. I think
you were right. Not another brush stroke. Not another swing to the chisel.
In the immortal words of
Professor emeritus Sir Bankwell Brokely esquire the third....
"People don't love my
work because it's in a form that is most peculiar: Heavy. But if they
discard their preconceptions, mother earth shall sluttily bear her averrhoa
carambola, sprung eternal from the branches of twisting woods. My words
are hearts plucked from their cages and sold like common star fruit.
Or finches. But thieves don't love my words because they're heavy. And
no fat chicks."