Thoughts on Impolex G

[Richard Romeo]

well, I was thinking out loud to a friend today about the dearth of real 
writers, writers in love with words, but who can braid them into beautiful 
things of being, resonanting off our skulls, and diving in, unlike the 
current spout of newsmen, punks, game show hosts, actors, and even 
filmakers, who have a different agenda, always difficult to translate into 
such beauty.  Now, I understand, many a great has fallen into the whole of 
language for language's sake, great minds on their own nihiloistic or cosmic 
debris mona lisa overdrive, so there, I do not belong to the camp of psuedo, 
post-pot beat nonsense. Yes, I like a story, too.
What is great about art in this form is that we, as readers, agree to put 
such words, like a second skin, around us, and within us, and maybe we can 
settle there for a while and say to death Fuck you, or something Stanley 
Elkin, say, could say much better than me, a non-writer.(my cursor is 
presently a V-2 rocket), (downloaded zip file)

Think of science:  yes, they'll come up with every permutation of letter 
space and punctuation product from a pretty ingenious equation they thought 
up (and think how large that number is) and they'll stick their knife in and 
say, yes, "this is literature".  But they miss the point as surely the 
Walter Kirn's of this world do, that there is a life that enfold us when we 
agree to enshroud ourselves in the proper word or words.  and no number can 
ever represent that shen as the Chinese call it.

well, so there (humbly) to quote the great ian Anderson

one white duck

rich


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