I don't like writing on the fly, especially when one's lights seem caught in a stock: Family anxieties, angry landlord, little food, no cigarettes. Whee, isn't life grand?
But you have to write. Like Kafka might say, a writer who doesn't write is a dangerous entity.
So with frayed coattails, an edge of a nervous breakdown here I go:
"Life is evil," says Arthur Schopenhauer, "ecause when you solve one problem another immediately crops up."
As a fiction writer, I get very leery of writing about reality, because it is stronger ane more fascinating than any fiction, and if you face it, it might just zap you. It is metaphysics, and any nuber of wizards from the past may have been zapped, like Mickey Mouse in the Sorcerer's Apprentice.
So here I am. Poor almost evicted. Along with a woman who seems in almost worse shape. I like to think that it is better to be smart and sensitive than stupid and sensitive...At leastsmart, you can almost think your way out during the tornado.
So right now during this rare Ontario tornado, I am in this cellar, still out of bread and cigarettes--Mickey Mouse in his bunker, daring not at all to face the dancing brooms.