The Dark Bark
The memoirs of Rin Tin Tin. Posted today on the anniversary of the death of the president he killed. See the comments section for the rest of the story.
posted by & at 1:29 PM
posted by & at 1:29 PM
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The Dark Bark -- Complete
Introduction to the Rin Tin Tin Poems
These few poems are from the original 1,673 page manuscript “The Dark Bark” found buried in “The Yard” (as the poor animals who are to be euthanized call it) at the pound in Brighton Beach. They are the work of Rin Tin Tin. I write elsewhere of the strange and tragic events that led me to this manuscript – my depression, initial contacts with the spirit world, inadvertent destruction of the complete posthumous poems of Shakespeare as communicated to me by the spirit Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the establishment of communication with the dead animal world (Thank you, Ted Hughes) and, finally communication with Rinty’s spirit with the assistance of the KA of W.H Auden.
Here I can only give the briefest sketch of Rinty’s life.
We know about Rinty and the movies. I’ll skip that. What is not so well known is that he was an excellent jazz guitarist. He met Billie Holiday in the Fifties. They fell in love. No one knew.
Intellectual love, of course.
He goes mad with grief after her death and -- because all dogs know the essential existentialist insight -- decides to create himself anew by joining the Cuban revolution.
It doesn't work -- he tries to establish serious theatre in Cuba and overcome the typecasting he has suffered from all of his life.
Oh, during the first flush of revolutionary joy audiences accept him (he thinks) as Puck in his Marxist version of "A Midsummer Night’s Dream" but soon he is reduced to playing bit parts in proletarian dramas and then its not long before there is no place for him in the State Theatre.
He works as a street performer for a bit -- usually as Lenin -- for the Soviet visitors Castro welcomes to the island. But then is arrested for anti-revolutionary activity when he tires of doing Lenin and tries a stint as Trotsky. After his release he makes his living --such as it is -- teaching the mambo to canine candidates for the Cuban National Circus and peddling marijuana to vacationers from Bulgaria.
In 66 he makes his move and escapes to NYC disguised as Chiquita Banana (he never says what happened to the young girl on the cruise ship who had been playing the part) and almost at once falls in with a crowd of drunken stand up comic wannabes and, while stoned and driving a dune buggy along the beach, runs down and kills poet Frank O'Hara.
(O'Hara died of injuries he received when he was hit by a vehicle on the beach at Fire Island, on Long Island, New York).
He flees to Cuba.
He is caught and sentenced to prison again where he is released by Castro -- one of the hardened criminals Castro sends to the US -- where, after many adventures, he attains his dream and is acclaimed as the "Hamlet of his Generation" by NY theatre critics.
He gives it all up again and travels in Texas and Mexico playing country guitar and getting in fights arguing over whether Fredric Remington or De Kooning is the best artist.
Gives that up and moves back to NYC. His poetry begins to be known.
The reader will note that in one sequence of poems Rinty claims to have assassinated JFK. True – he did testify before the Warren Commission but I believe we can dismiss these claims as sheer fantasy caused by Rinty’s failure to get Leslie Howard’s role in “The Manchurian Candidate.” I believe we should choose to remember the famous “Life” cover of Rinty saluting the eternal flame at JFK’s tomb rather than those photos taken later that night on the Mall -- drunken, under arrest and wearing only a significant leer and a leopard-skin pillbox hat.
Rinty spent his last years in New York City.
And then, of course, destroyed by his own loathing of his being in time as a dog all he has left -- loveless and writing this memoir in the pound in Brighton Beach where he will be euthanized -- are memories of his betrayals and regrets that overwhelm everything else.
The first poem “Late for a Poetry Reading” starts somewhat towards the end.
Late for a Poetry Reading
Late for a poetry reading
and trusting the Sufi
livery cab driver
because he pretended
he knew me
(How old are you
anyway? What is that
in dog years?)
and half drunk
in any case
having known
intellectual love
with Billy
She dead these
thirty years
and fame and
an excess of revolutionary
ardor those years
in Cuba
and don't even
ask me about the sixties
having ridden the
Union Pacific
to the Cheyenne cutoff
loveless
in America
in winter
dreaming a
heavenly chasm
but no and
then hating
death and all
those who love it
returning through
West Texas from
Pancake to
Goodnight
in the railroad yard
there I heard
the OJays and
so returning to New York
and ending that night
somewhere in
I think
Long Island
poetry reading
in the Bronx
and at dusk
trying to find
my way back
seeing at the
window of
a perfectly bourgeois
house her a
young German Shepherd
the cream gold
glittering of her
eyes she looking
at this old dog
in perfect indifference
and knowing never
again I turn
the corner
always forever
going no-where
at the end of this
life
and bark
at the difficult dark.
This second poem is a beginning and an ending of sorts (a typical denouement) after Rinty returns to the USA after exile in Cuba.
Los Marielitos
You know Elmore Leonard
got a lot of his Florida schtick from me
when I was sobering up down in Miami.
I guess it was inevitable that I would
get involved with the mob after I fled Cuba
but it didn't start out that way.
May, 1980. They called us Los Marielitos.
I was one of 123,000 new Cuban refugees
that came to the USA in a short five months,
including about 5,000 of us who
were said to be hard-core criminals.
They crossed the ocean on a prayer.
On crowded, unsafe fishing boats.
On rafts held together by tires.
In search of a myth. Carrying only the
clothes on their backs, a passport, and a
crumbled piece of paper with a relative's phone number in the US.
I knew better.
The myth was over for me long ago.
I had Lassie's phone number but of course I would never call it.
She was probably dead and it was a whole new generation and
here I was, the icon of a previous generation, puking half
digested red beans over the side of a raft.
Back in the USA. Back in the USA
done in by the hype back then and by,
yes, my own yen to do serious theatre.
"The Defiant Ones"
The studio really wasn't happy with Tony Curtis
His real name?
Bernie Schwartz.
They came to me. As always.
But I didn't really think it would be a good move
to play a role in which I would have
to be manacled to another actor for the whole movie.
I didn’t tell this to Billy.
But she would have understood.
We had that kind of relationship.
"Don't threaten me with love, baby.
Let's just go walking in the rain."
I was already leery of typecasting
and ready to break out.
This was in 58, of course.
Billy died next year.
I remember what she told me:
“You can be up to your boobies in white satin,
with gardenias in your hair and no sugar cane
for miles, but you can still be working on a plantation.”
Yeah, so my TV show was a hit.
So what?
West Side Story had been a possibility
It's based on Romeo and Juliet
but I turned that down too.
They didn't know about me and Billy.
Lady Day.
No-one did.
If they only knew.
Sidney Poitier was a gentleman to me when
I met him but I felt that… well…
that he simply wasn't up to the role
and I was tired of having to carry my part
and everyone elses.
I suggested Richard Burton -- a little make up
… but they wouldn't go for it.
Sir Lawrence Olivier would have been good
But tell you the truth I didn't want to be chained to a lisping Limey for hours on end.
And I'll tell you what.
It was Shakespeare or nothing.
That’s the way I felt.
I told Billy I loved her.
She said:.
"Don't threaten me with love, baby.
Let's just go walking in the rain."
No, I Am Not Prince Hamlet Nor Was Meant To Be
You humans are so predictable.
In fact for years most dogs
were convinced that you were utterly
without self consciousness -- without Mind.
After all, we present a stimulus to you
and we ALWAYS get a predictable response.
The fact is we have such a horror
of the fact
that we can NOT be sincere
that we do whatever we can
to make it stop.
Yeah, a dog will pant
and bark and bring the
damn ball back again and again and again
-- we do it to keep from going mad,
to hope to experience
just for an instant unmediated
unironic consciousness, to --for just one instant
-- be THERE, be in the moment.
It never works.
Never.
That's why we die so young
and it is also why I was,
on a foggy evening OFF OFF Broadway
in a little theatre in the year 1959,
I was, simply put,
the best Hamlet of my generation.
New York City -- Towards Night
When I reflect how that
My little light went out
Ere I had a chance to
Be Poet Laureate being
Perfectly capable of
Writing fey little poems
A la Billy Collins
And why do we have
A poet laureate
Named Billy anyway
And what is this – Ireland
Then I find my mind returning ever
To the Golden Retrievers
Of Manhattan
Forced into the indignity
Of limping beside
The jogging wife
Of the Day Trader
With her highlighted tresses
And DKNY shirt
And her pierced low carb belly
Exposed and that bitter breed
Chained next to her
Desiring only, perhaps,
To die
Then only then
Am I at peace with Death.
1953
1953 was a hard year for me.
Sad. I don’t know why.
I had work. Me and Bob Mitchum
Were friends at last. After all
Those misunderstandings. “You want to
Break out?” I asked him. “Then forget
All this crap about being a natural actor.”
I took his drink away. Got his attention.
“Acting is a craft. Don’t scowl at me.
You know I’m right. You’ll never
Do Shakespeare unless…” He eyed me warily.
“Yo, Rinty,” he said. “You have Billy”
( I had told him) “What do I have?”
He fired up another Chesterfield.
Squinted through the smoke.
“Nothing happens anyway.”
Nothing happens?
I knew what he meant.
I was getting there.
He grinned. “How the Hell did you
Do that to McCarthy?”
I gave him back his drink.
“Told him I was a commie, that’s how.
“I’m an American Icon, Bob. It was too much for him.
Goodbye Tailgunner Joe.”
Bob laughed but he didn’t believe me.
He was really quite a charming man
Guys who don’t believe in anything often are.
So he could be a gentleman to Rita Hayworth
Down in Mexico, her mind gone. But…
A bastard to everyone else.
Nothing in his eyes.
And I was sad there.
It was New York. September 13, 1953.
Another dive, Another gig.
Bob left with a blonde before I began to play.
I started to play but just walked out.
It was the night Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey had
Finally gotten together again.
They kept playing while I put down my guitar.
They never forgave me.
“A” train to Harlem.
Got in Billy’s DeSota and drove.
In a few hours
Lost in Pennsylvania.
Stopped. Don’t know why.
Got out. Looked up. Falling star.
Not me. Something from forever.
Finally found a town.
Asked a little guy outside a hospital for directions.
“We just had a baby girl,” he said.
I drove back to my life.
In Lonliest Country
In Lonliest Country
I remember that
The philosopher Berdyayev wrote
About how when he
Was little and it was night
And he was with his mother
Wanting to get to Moscow
In a bolshoy hurry whizzing under
The stars in a sleigh the kind
Dear to the memory of Nabokov
That is a sort of unreal sleigh
As he was whizzing past all
Those wretched villages maybe
Seeing only a dog shivering
Before some wretched hut that
He thought All over
All over No More All lost
He would never see that dog again.
But I was worried there
In Lonliest Country
Warrensville, Pa turning
The corner of Second Avenue
Noticing a three legged dog
Following me and seeing it all
Someone's dead grandmother
Passed me and I was looking
For the Lonliest Ranger wondering who is
That lonely and restless man
Behind that swinging facade?
The dog following me the American Icon
And no Mister though
You never asked you smoking
A Pall Mall in front of the
Furniture store across from
Lipkins I don't need a 21 Inch
Magnavox Color TV or a bedroom soot.
And where was Lonliest I'll bet
In Cuernavaca or Taxco
Up the street I am wearing my
Sheep shirt the one with all
The sheep on it. Damn dog.
Turning up the Knowledge of Death
Is the Source of our Praise Avenue.
Unreal city and there he is
But I don't even have to ask
He says Behind that swinging facade
Is another swinging facade and
Then Do you remember the little cake
Shop on the Neva the one Pound mentions
Where he never was where I never was
Where you never was and I say
Damn right I do mofo
And he is gone and I turn to
The little three legged dog
Running TOWARDS me and
I am happy and call
"Here, Hoppy! Come here, boy!"
L.A. Song
It's all pre-need as they say.
I knew it when I went to L.A.
To lend my peculiar grace
To that particular place.
I'm sorry that I had to stay.
It's the wanting it all that kills.
Still, I wish I had one of them stills
Of me "In the Yukon"
With that little toucan.
I'll never see it and no-one else will.
I had a few drinks with my pals.
We wished we knew more of those gals.
Those gals who are sad
And wasted and bad.
The gals who were just like my pals.
So I stay in the Hollywood Hills.
And dream of the ghosts of those pills.
The kind you would take
At the Sir Francis Drake
And wait while the emptiness fills.
What a Little Moonlight Can Do
Three days after Bastille day
Behind the shut up café
In a broke down car
(Hard to gas yourself
If the car won’t start)
In Cross Plains, Texas
Thinking I saw nothing
More than myself
Reflected in my Les Paul
Black Beauty that night
I step out of my 1971
Ford Maverick the
Door operated courtesy
Light snicking on and
Look up at the sky
At all the tired animals
Stars bluewhitelonely
Thinking of that night
At the Three Deuces so
Long Ago and playing at
The Famous Door
The night Billy died
Errol Garner, Me, Oscar
Pettiford, Errol saying
You better than Django
But nobody will ever say it.
Not knowing Billy was dead
I was happy. Looking up
I say at the skyey animals
The old dog in the moon
Ending like this
Saying to the drunks
In the cowboy bar
This riff is based on Les Negres
By Jean Genet laughing
At myself really and now
Wanting it to end but
The car won’t start. Looking
Up I remember I told Billy
Radiance is the dealbreaker
And heard, radio definably off
Her singing “What a Little
Moonlight Can Do” and
That was the last time
I was truly happy and
I was there knowing
I would never try
To find the music again
Tired.
Pancake
Levelland
Mule Shoe
Sonora
Meadow
What vistas of hidden forgetfulness
Exhaustively at hand!
After the First Death, Well….
The collies yapped outside the funeral home
The whole world it seemed was sinking, sinking
I illumed the lamp, read a curious tome
Minnie Cheevied it and kept on drinking.
Damned hard to do with the goblins chuckling.
Ah, yes they won’t get no satisfaction.
No swoons, or faints, and no knees buckling:
I read, and drink and choose inaction.
“More Ovaltine?” Lassie draws near.
“And tell me, Rinty, what are you reading?”
“It’s only Captain Midnight, dear
Poor guy, he’s taking quite a beating.”
I kissed her, then said, “I won’t forget
Though really screwed, he’s not dead yet.
Road Kill
I ignore them.
The possum squashed on the macadam.
The unprophetic groundhog, in Texas
A holocaust of Armadillos, the skunk
“Skunk. God!” you say.
Driving on, a snake absolutely flat on the road.
There is no heaven of animals
A rabbit. A black and white cat.
A small dog stinking in the sun.
You see them and you make up a story.
The dog setting out to warn us all:
Fire, fire in the forest! The turtle there
100 years old!... what thoughts there, Rinty?
And what innocence for all of them.
I’m glad one of us knows the signs
To find our home.
The Thing
The Thing that
Is really
Quite unrepresentable
I represent anyway
It’s really
Quite tenable
Just like a lawyer
Whose client
Unkennable
Testified awfully
Horribly unmendable
Admitting something
Really unpennable
An unkennable, unfencible
Horrible thing.
Really quite venerable
Completely unlexible
Sadly unhexible.
You say that I represent nothing at all?
Please, make yourself comfortable.
I’ll go make a call.
RinTinTology
I never met Django
Never really wanted too, I guess
We would have “eyed each other warily”
Like the time I met Senator Jack Kennedy
Was it 57?
In the Cozy Cole me playing there
Jack with Sammy
Sammy told me he was nervous.
Jack working on his charisma thing
And me.. height of my fame
Billy there Jack wanting her to come to his table
Her not noticing and me looking at her
Playing “Vous et Moi”
Sammy said “Man, come on down see who’s here.”
So afterwards I sit down next to the Senator
He in black glasses smoking a Kool
Undercover or something
Billie came over. She said she liked the man
Afterwards, knew his Daddy… called him
Mr. Death. “That boy has troubles”
She said. “He was just nervous meeting me”
I told her. She could see that.
Anybody could. “He eyed you warily
Behind those shades” We laughed.
Forgot about it. I had something he wanted.
And he had something…something…
Held back… connection to.. as if he knew
About us, about me and Billy,
Something he said. Joking about Howard Hughes.
Sammy told me Jack laughed afterwards.
“Said he was nervous. Something strange. Didn’t
Know why.”
In 63 in August Castro “eyed me warily.”
A little moonlight, bourbon on his breath,
Backstage, the little moon a paper one
For “Midsummers Night Dream” A wood near
Athens and I had transformed it, a bit of Brecht,
All of Shakespeare, Theseus nervous knowing
That Quince knew, Flute knew, Bottom breaking
the frame, declaring the revolution and me as Puck
Leaping, flying off that stage, like Peter Pan
TO FIDEL he standing up, smiling,
Me kneeling with the flowers but he
Afterwards backstage distant and cold wondering I thought
If the applause was for him or me.
Che was very nice, however.
Speaking one word… one word.
And I was in Dallas next was in Dallas then.
If I could play great jazz guitar
No hand…only paws.
Why couldn’t I
Slowly, hold breath, there he is
Pull the trigger
Of a Manlicher-Carcano 6.5mm rifle?
The Platinum Goddess
Stepping into
Her room
I see
What should
Not be seen.
Beauty is sleeping.
Beauty is sleeping.
Nice work, my friends.
In Texas
Driving through
West Texas there
Ahead a silver trailer.
“Good Sam Club.”
A dolt with a halo.
Passing on
The shoulder going
Nowhere I look up.
American dolt behind
the wheel.
Going nowhere.
Like me.
I can do nothing for him.
Arlington
Me standing before
The eternal flame.
Photogs.
Speed graphic cameras.
One tear.
Saluting Jack.
“American Icon”
Cover of Life
Yes, one wants life.
Nou goeth sonne under wod.
Boulez, Bloch, Maurice Ravel
Boulez, Bloch, Maurice Ravel
Tell me. Are you doing well?
I seem to hear a faint demurral.
Is that you?
Or just this squirrel
Shivering in my winter garden
While I stand here like Sydney Carlton?
Mercy for all in fall of sparrow?
Do I hear a faint Bolero?
Letter from a Dog Before Troy
Dear Penelope,
It's windy here. Nine years in a tent on the beach.
Ulysses says they know what they're doing.
Right.
Nine years and for what?
What’s nine years to them?
Most of my life.
I’m tired. Don’t even ask me about the gods.
There’s a limit to loyalty.
But you already know that.
I know about the puppies.
You should have told me.
She told me, of course.
I don’t care.
Just get them out of Ithaca.
By the time you read this
I’ll be gone. I have..what..four more years?
Going to someplace where there are no men.
No gods.
Maybe a few rabbits.
All the Starry Animals
Looking up
I love them too --
All the starry animals.
Looking down
Or not.
Not saying anything.
Not saying nothing either.
Old Dog: A Villanelle
I am an old dog and am gently trying,
To meekly go to the difficult dark..
Alone, alone I am slowly dying.
The slow snow drifts down and no wind sighing.
Take out a Zippo and light up a Lark.
No regrets none. No who and no whying.
Sad ghosts outside I hear them all crying.
Mort Sahl’s on TV. Makes a funny remark.
No, thanks Time/Life I guess I’m not buying.
Death’s at the door. The bastard is lying.
“Hey, Rinty! It’s Lassie!” One small sad bark.
Wilder wind now. The snowflakes are flying.
Good Night has come. There is no denying.
Unknown is that country. Stark is the bark.
I am an old dog and am dying, dying.
And you, who haunt me forever sighing,
Crying my name in the difficult dark.
I am an old dog and am dying, dying.
I am alone and am dying, dying.
I am an old dog and am dying, dying.
I am an old dog and am dying, dying
Alone, alone I am slowly dying
I am alone and am dying, dying.
I Died In New York
I died in New York
At the shelter in Brighton beach.
My last silence.
I thought of Pound at Rapallo in the last years.
Silence. He didn't speak to anyone.
He too had been in a cage.
Like him I wrote and wrote
It was all I had left.
1,673 pages of my life.
And this is how it ends.
The guy gave me part of his pastrami sandwich.
I had Lou Reed's number.
I had Woody's.
But I didn't ask the guy to call.
"Come, kindly death," I wrote.
Not without irony..it's a line I never got to say.
The kind of line that went to others.
I acted with my body one arf one twitch of the tail
and you knew what it meant to be with the 7th at Little Big Horn your little boy dead beside you with a hole in his neck and the bright blood and the blue sky above and
the
red
Indian
yowling and you running to tell someone, tell Custer
tear his throat out for he brought you to this
and then they'd say "CUT" and I would have a smoke and mess around with my stand-in and tell Jew jokes and then
I
WAS
ON
but I never even began to be what I was
Never
Never
Never
and yes I could have been Lear.
Oh you are men of stone!
But I said not a word.
It's cold with the breeze from the beach.
I was in Brighton Beach
I was dying.
At Sardi's in 57 I think with Capote I told him
everything Hollygolightly and he took it and
changed the name to Tiffanys just because no-one
would believe a dog could be so tender and gay...
But I loved the movie.
It was cold in Brighton Beach
The guy also gave me some knishes.
All of it lost. I should have been kinder.
At night I howled.
My Epitaph
How oft has the Banshee cried
O’er a poor dead dog’s grave?
Snow. Silence. Don’t ask why.
Nothing to save.
Yet, I loved you sweet passers by.
Dear Catchers in the Rye.
As you are so once was I.
Jazz Life/Afterlife
I went to Hell.
Never looked back.
Already been to Texas.
Talk about "Le Jazz Hot."
They were all there.
Of course.
The Hot Club.
Like before...they were ghosts.
I remember that time in the Four Aces
Erroll saying. "You on tonight, my man"
Without irony.
I knew what he meant.
Laying down a line like Judassilver.
Wanting it all never getting it.
Missing that one chord.
He meant I wasn't perfect.
So perfect. So trying..like we all did.
Him what...in a few years?
Dead.
Love in vain.
All in vain.
And not
There... not getting it all
Just missing.
Notes dying.
Only rain outside.
Talk about "Le Jazz Hot."
They were all there.
Of course.
The Hot Club.
Before Another Poetry Reading
1.
Just like Robert Lowell
Before he went definably mad
My “author” (let’s call him Joe) steps off the plane
Where he is met
With greasy servility
By a nervous graduate student
Who notes
Shaky hands
Red eyes
Too many whiskeys.
Into the car
“Reception at five, sir!”
“Five o’clock in the afternoon?”
Where are the great finned cars of yore?
Passels of Passats….only…
Joe eyes him warily.
“Take me to the Old Aquarium!”
“But…where?”
“I need to see the Colonel.”
Vonnegut on the car radio. Still alive then?
“South Boston. I wait
For the blessèd break.”
“Where…?”
“Drive,” he says and somehow
There.
2.
“I have been living at the Garden of Allah.
Yours, Scott Fitzgerald”
Then
in the Wordsworth Room
Of the Pierce Brothers mortuary
1941 720 West Washington Boulevard
Ghost Dog
Returning to where I never was
Where was I?
Scott there. No.
“His hands were horribly wrinkled and thin.”
At 44: “He actually had suffered and died an old man.”
Returning then. Dorothy Parker remembers Gatsby
Says “Poor son of a bitch.” to Scott Not Scott.
No there there as they say.
Seeing what? Mystery. Seeing what she wanted.
Ghost Dog.
“Scott, I will always remember looking in on
whatever it is that is to me, you.
Yours, Rin Tin Tin”
3.
At the monument.
Remembering that line about Shaw’s father.
Looking for Lonliest there, perhaps.
Joe then back in the car.
“I’m ready,” he says.
Shaky hands, red eyes..
“It’s almost five. I don’t know if we’ll make it.”
“Skunk hour,” Joe thinks.
“Drive like the wind,” he says.
Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam.
Epigraph
I bark at at the dark until the darkness yields.
As you go stark. Babbling of green fields.
Yours,
Rinty
Maraming Salamat po! At last something I can read. Which I did last night. Twice. Slightly different format: pasted into two-column tables in Word. Looks nice. Initial impressions, other than the above: well, need to see more of the remaining 1,600+ pages. Selection seems slightly undisciplined with regards to time. Especially between "New York City -- Towards Night" and rest. Compelled to want something more confined where cultural icons and events mutually inform commentary with some explicable consistency. And sure, this is not necessary ('in a work of art', blahblahblah) and perhaps ws even intended (reflections from the yard at Pound X, e.g.); still: the tightness of the bulk of the selection drives this desire for the jar as container.
Otherwise, just one last initial thing: sige na - no more naming of Hamlet! Well-enough defined, Rinty will name himself. (the following superfluous, but: Rinty, here, the elements of his own generation you and he expose). And since the above comment IS superfluous, this begs the question: WHY do you name him?!
HiYahTun, how about some more of those remaining 1,662 (or 52)? Meantime I'll revisit what I have. Again, Thanks Much!
Dear Sincliar,
Drop a note to joegreen66@yahoo.com to receive your copy of Rinty's CD "The Dark Bark." All is revealed there.
Rinty would want it that way.
Sinclair not Sincliar...damn.
It's all those nights at the Ouija board.
and me still waiting for the rest of the manuscript.... the rest is still in the manila envelope i slipped it in for the trip across... if it is incomplete, what can one say about swiss cheese.... except that it tastes good?
reading the commentary box, here, is wonderous its like reading Sartre's Critique of Dialectical Reason _ not content _ but form, he has these amazing footnotes that just go on for pages and pages, and turn the foot of the page. you dig. Grand to be here
1, 673 is a beautiful number
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