August 17, 2000: Burping in hopes of laughing

Wow! A blank sheet of paper! If only I could explain how exciting such an object is to me. So, what do I do? I mess it up with bellows of thought and anger created by an over worked soul. I’m guilty of this misdemeanor! Writing is more than my escape—it’s challenging the brain to lift the rain cloud and place it somewhere over there. The one thing I could never do is be Shakespeare—he didn’t try to be me.

I stand alone, the forest before me. So is everything else—my job, more of my job and even more: The death of a salesman in disc jockey shoes. I’m alone, in a world with people reaching in—friendly fingers hoping to heal. The barking heard, is from the carnival, “Come one! Come all! The most unique attraction on earth! Here sits a man, alone, doing his job. He’s doing everything that comes first. Arms of steel! A soul made of gold! No smile to wear! It’s like a dog searching for his tail! Wait! Don’t sniff his rear! No! No! No! Go now! Leave him a lone, his boss has found something new for him to do.”