Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Where is Watson the Worm Picker?
I am not Shelley and my lamp isn't totally shattered at the shank of this full moon, but I wonderewhy a long-cooled piece of rock should have such an effect on ones moods.
Eveything seems grey, grey.
One thinks gloomy thoughts about ones spouse, ones children, ones dog.
It takes just an iota of Buddhism to contemplate the futility of f*cking near everything. Your book will never be published hardcover. You have joined the list of also-rans.
You are consigned to teaching creative writing forever and worms seem to rise out of the ground with their accusantions: You've dug your last hole, Mole. We will put you into solitary confinement. You shall be a recluse and a nut.
I think of my friend Watson, (aka Eddie Snopes in my novels) who had somehow made a good living picking dew worms for Florida fishermen.
Watson picked his last worm recently. He died shortly after his house burned down. Did the worm ever turn?
Seems not for Watson. For a while he was rich on the insurance money and the worms; it was Watson's last waltz along the golf course.
You ceratainly cannot take it with you....But you leave all those D.P.'s-- Displaced Persons, Watson's brothers who are wandering the streets willy-nilly because Watson had forgotten to make a will. Three hundred thousand dollars gone poof and Watson up there laughing, I suppose.
It's sad old full moon out.
Where is Watson the worm picker?
I dasn't bait a hook.