My relationship with writing is completely different. I used to write with all sorts of bullshit adjectives and cryptic words, intentionally leaving out personal identifiable details like names, hair color, eye color, and alike.

Now, I prefer clarity over poetry; story over grammar; substance over form. I have nothing to hide; nothing to take; nothing to want. There’s nothing more that could be done to me that hasn’t already been done.

For those who think otherwise, those poor lost souls who still think in terms of reputation, who still believe in things like magic and legacy, who can’t help but worry what others think, don’t forget what Bob Dylan said:

I’m thoroughly convinced people who write with dense poetic flare have nothing worthwhile to write, so they put lipstick on their mundane pig of a story, when they’re not plagiarizing someone else’s ideas or words.

I could never be a regular reader of fiction. Fiction makes absolutely no fucking sense to me. Reality interests me. Real people doing real things; with real struggles, with real love affairs, and with a real day of death.

These thoughts are taking me back to some old familiar stories. Viktor E. Frankl’s “Man’s Search For Meaning” and whatever happened to my copy of William H. Meehan’s “Portrait Of A Janitor: A Poetic Autobiography.”

—ooOoo—

I don’t have a lot of time this morning. I’m taking a break to write a few things, but I have so much to write about these daze. Change is coming.

I also made a decision to go back to the French Quarter Festival this year. It’s been too long, and I never liked the way things ended between us.

I’m not saying the FQF is gonna be a regular thing again. It will never be the same, and I liked the FQF more when it was a smaller local event.

In fact, I really enjoyed Halloween in the French Quarter, and I’d rather make Halloween or Thanksgiving a new regular annual trip to NOLA.