Thursday, June 2
b.c.w.y.w.f.y.m.j.g.i., a work of allegorical fiction
So I'm sitting in a Denver apartment with the shades drawn to keep out the heat, and this frog hops out from under the couch. He looks at me for a while without saying much of anything, and I look at him, and then he makes me an offer: He'll gladly give me "five time-tested themes for use in your next major literary work, guaranteed to be both profitable and artistically sound", in exchange for a bathtub full of cool water and half of my beef & bean burrito. I suspect he might have me confused with someone else, but it seems like a reasonable proposition.
I get out a notebook and make sure my pen is all inked up. I had this dream last night where I just kept trying to fill up the pen, which is blue and leaky and about 35 years old, and pretty soon my bottle of ink had run dry and the pen still wouldn't write and it was snowing all around the helicopter that was carrying me to hell. The dream has left me feeling like I ought to be more sure of my writing utensils.
This is what the frog says to me, more or less:
- It's really hard to get what you want.
- You aren't going to get what you want.
- What you want doesn't exist.
- By the time you get what you want, you won't want it any more.
- You don't know what you want anyway.
After I've finished writing that last one down - it strikes me immediately as the most true & relevant - I draw the frog a bath and leave the halved burrito sitting on the soap dish. When I step back into the living room, the frog has disappeared and I can hear it raining outside.