Friday, July 27, 2012

Comes to writing and music, is seventy not an age, but a dimension?

I am probably turning senile, but I'm beginning to think my advanced age is not an age, but a dimension. Take writing and music. In the same dimension? Well, maybe in the same family, for I seem a crashing bore, though enthusiastic, at both writing and music. Suddenly it seems, at 70+, that the music is taking me over. It became clear to me at the hysterically young age of seventy-three that I may have been wrong in killing myself at writing these past fifty years. (The financial reward was paltry while it seems at music, you not only get a sort of instant gratification, but more often than not, somebody at least will supply the beer); seems that with writing, you are to one buying the beer, for agents and prospective publishers. With music, more often than not, you'll get a beer sent to both you and your compnion if a performance was particularly good. It has struck me that I may have been losing at writing over half a century, while music seems easy, and somehow helps your soul to catch up with your body,heh, after all that sin and muddlement. That or it's just some death angel, possibly from Dixie--there is that Delta pull of you do blues, and though I try to be John Prine in my music, It is just an imitation of that musical tiger. So where is your own song, old Ivan? Hopefully, it's in my novels, but it seems lately that if you blow on the words, they just seem to fade away.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

I'm a little yellow duck

I don't like thinking out loud on a webpage. It's got to do with the composition of a short story. I am stuck.

Anyway here are the salient facts of the short story I am somehow compelled to do:

I was sitting on a park bench, depressed over friggin' near everything, including my financial condition.

Suddenly, right at my feet was this little yellow duckling, with a young girl walking just behind.

The little yellow duck nibbled at my toes a bit, decided there was no duckweed on my Adidas, and then trundled off on a waddle, seeming to lead the young girl.

The girl appeared to be walking her duck today, and the duck had examined my toes with some interest.
The girl paused after the little yellow duck hesitated, not sure of whether to go up Timothy, a sidestreet, or keep waddling north on Main.

"Where did you get your duck?" I asked the little girl, whose father was not far behind. Duck, girl, father, all in a row.

I think she said Brooks Farms, though I am a klutz at facts. Facts confuse me.

Anyway, the image was so sweet. The little yellow duck leading the way, the cute little girl behind, and the father sort of looking out for girl and duck.
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I'm a little yellow duck, waddling down Main Street


I don't like thinking out loud on a webpage. It's got to do with the composition of a short story. I am stuck.


Anyway here are the salient facts of the short story I am somehow compelled to do:


I was sitting on a park bench, depressed over friggin' near everything, including my financial condition.


Suddenly, right at my feet was this little yellow duckling, with a young girl walking just behind.

The little yellow duck nibbled at my toes a bit, decided there was no duckweed on my Adidas, and then trundled off on a waddle, seeming to lead the young girl.

The girl appeared to be walking her duck today, and the duck had examined my toes with some interest.
The girl paused after the little yellow duck hesitated, not sure of whether to go up Timothy, a sidestreet, or keep waddling north on Main.

"Where did you get your duck?" I asked the little girl, whose father was not far behind. Duck, girl, father, all in a row.

I think she said Brooks Farms, though I am a klutz at facts. Facts confuse me.

Anyway, the image was so sweet. The little yellow duck leading the way, the cute little girl behind, and the father sort of looking out for girl and duck.
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