a recent obsession, i'll be posting some of my favorite bits from a collection entitled Revenge of the Lawn. "He was a gentle, troubled, deeply odd guy." (Tom McGuane on Richard Brautigan) and i love him.
"The novelist was in his late forties, tall, reddish, and looked as if life had given him an endless stream of two-timing girlfriends, five-day drunks and cars with bad transmissions."
My entrance into the thing came about this way: One day I was standing in front of my shack, eating an apple and staring at a black ragged toothache sky that was about to rain.
What I was going was like an occupation for me. I was that involved at looking at the sky and eating the apple. You would have thought that I had been hired to do it with a good salary and a pension if I stared at the sky long enough.
The place was small and muddy and smelled like stale rain and had a large unmade bed that looked as if it had been a partner to some of the saddest love-making this side of The Cross.
There was a green bushy half-table with a couple of insect-like chairs and a little sink and a small stove that was used for cooking and heating.
There were some dirty dishes in the little sink. The dishes looked as if they had always been dirty: born dirty to last forever.
I could hear a radio playing Western music someplace in the trailer, but I couldn't find it. I looked all over but it was nowhere in sight. It was probably under a shirt or something.
all from "1/3 1/3 1/3"