There are so many stories I want to tell, stories I've never gotten to about characters who've been in the background but never announced, like Gypsy-Song and the Queen Supreme, like Waterloo and The Doctor’s Brother, all of the whores at the end of the universe that we are, but half of those stories aren’t mine to tell, and the other half I’m bound by circumspection not to recount, and there’s an extra third that defy any flavor description I might give to them.
We’re nearing one of the edges of this blog-tapestry, and the weave is fraying. Can you feel it? No matter the story I try to tell, it starts getting crazy. Crazy crazy crazy. And those repeated images and phrases I keep using may well turn yet into a system of careful motif and theme, or could simply devolve into lazy repetitions, or may form nothing more than a corpus of practice sketches to one as-yet-unformed oeuvre. And as Mickey Fouc says, a genius is just a madman with l'oeuvre -- so until that day, I'm just a crazy person.
8 months ago