An English In Kentucky


















January 6th 2011    Tim Candler

    Creative Is, and it's hard when the eyes of others ask questions.  I am told it is like standing naked in a room full of lawyers.  Something I cannot picture because I am cowardly and reclusive and trying to hibernate. 

    Then on judgment day, Creative Is slams the door and a person tumbles into emptiness unless they are pompous and driven and obnoxious. 

     I should call this a slope in randomness.  But instead I grab for those words that give provenance and title and meaning.  And the question I suppose is the nature of reward.  Which appears too often as a menu crafted by others.

      Ah the social.  What a joy it is.  So I am going to waddle around the perimeter to where the Far Mockingbird lives.  He has two trees in his yard that I mean to take pictures of.  And afterwards, if I am still breathing, I'll visit the Witch Tree.

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