I'm starting the hunt for publishers and agents. Writing is the easy part.
Woody Allen said, "Those that write write, those who don't write teach writing and those that can't write teach physical education."
As a vagabond poet I've had very little truck with either. They travel in different circles or see me and recognize trouble.
After the New Year I started rewriting ALMOST A DEAD MAN, a dark novel about a black pimp in Hamburg, 1982 from a 2016 version. Yesterday I found a very cleaner copy from 2017. In 2016 I had been working in a metal shop. Bronze, copper, and steel in my blood. Beer tasted of metal. Those elements and more affected my brain along with my heroic drinking.
For money I've been nude modeling for Jock Ireland, a clay sculpture teacher at the the New York Studio School.
An attendee asked, ""Are you still sculpting"
"No."
"Because I suck "
Jock had graduated from university the same year as me
1974.
I wanted to say, "Everyone sucks, but the effort to not suck, however illusive, opens our eyes to the opinion that sucking doesn't matter "
As a nude model I held my sand. We are strictly bodies. Naked seated on a chair on a dais. Our shape up to the artitst. Our flesh and bones and muscles to be rendered by hands from slabs of the clay to how the sculptor envisions us. I end up looking Jabba the Hut's cousin. That does suck.
Guess there's no Greece hero left in me.
I was happy for the session and returned to Clinton Hill and ALMOST A DEAD MAN. Hamburg 1982. I was only thirty.
Cheers.
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