A Word From The Flapper's Father

Writing The Walrus is a completely new experience for me. I think the last time I tried to write a long story I was barely nineteen years old and living in San Miguel de Allende, a little town in the hill country north of Guadalajara. It was a magnet for American and Canadian artists and writers in those days and a big part in my passage from being a baby beatnik to being a real beatnik. The story was called Sunday:Twilight and featured a beat poet named Bruno who fell in love with a beautiful French girl but then her mother died and he couldn't comfort her because of his own alienation and he was left sitting alone in his North Beach room looking out at the dusk. Or something like that. I left the story in some Victorian flat or another long ago. I wish I hadn't.

Anyway, I think you guys must be okay with The Walrus too, because my numbers are staying steady. But I miss the old camaraderie we used to have around here. We haven't had a good squabble since Madonna and I decided to fight global warming over a month ago. I don't much like squabbling but I do miss everybody coming round and hanging out like in the old days.

So I figure maybe I'd better do some pondering here from time to time and not let The Walrus just take over the blog. But I've gotten a little obsessed with the story. It's what I ponder about. Who are these characters anyway? What relationship do they have to actual people I knew and events I saw? How do you create a plot that doesn't take over but keeps people reading? Mainly though, I just let my inner clerk go down into my subconscious, rummage around, and bring up whatever oddment he will. It's pretty fun.

Maybe I should start writing abut Kiva and social justice issues again. I still care. But it's Sunday twilight and it's raining outside and I feel like curling up and reading my book about Philo Farnsworth, the guy who invented television. As Paulie Ratskiwatski says, "You never know."

Photo credit: Portland State University