1.
Murmurings mutate. A murmuring persued too closely closes upon a secret hinge, cannot be caught; except perhaps like a butterfly, pinned. I hate biography, made up as it is, from deceitful fiction. Please give me anytime, the straight lie, like, I'm the third cousin of the Lone Ranger. Which is, of course, exactly who I am. A shadow, a shade, a badly reflected reflection, sat here typing, talking to you.
2.
My mother describes me as fair and fifty seven, my wife as dark and thirty two.
3. I have been writing since I was four (hasn't everyone) but at that time, terribly badly. I couldn't hold the crayons you see. For every mistake, Sister Mary would give me a right crack across the knuckles. Let that be a lesson to you, she'd say. Ever since then I have expected little more for my efforts. In fact, Sister Mary trained me so well, that I am now totally immune to all and every kind of criticism.
4. "His fuel were small sachets of sadness, which daily he saddled up and... rode vacantly across the bitter salt flats of life."
5. My first lesson in life? There are no such things as cowboys, my mother said, rather sharply, as she snatched the sweeping brush that I was using as a horse, from under me. Maybe it all started to go wrong from there.
6. Now, I don't even believe in sweeping brushes. |
