"We all jumped to the music and agreed. The purity of the road. The whiteline in the middle of the highway unrolled and hugged our left front tire as if glued to our groove. Dean hunched his muscular neck, T-shirted in the winter night, and blasted the car along."
-"On The Road" by Jack Kerouac
(I enormously adore the adjectived T-shirt in that line)

"Sons strapped
To the bosom of a Mother
Like beauty pageant scepters
Declaring two beauties."

-Quoting myself straight from a yellow pad


Howdy.

What an awkward greeting but today I say howdy for reason that saying hi is no longer normal.

Anyhoo. (my apologies to you fatboysmart :-) )

When people ask me, and from where I traipse around with much ungait, few inquisitors are shaped in this mold, when they ask me what I do now, blank-faced, I normally reply : Nothing.

In the realist existence though, my answer could be this: I am providing necessary company to someone who truly needs a companion : my mother. It all boils down to that and I will leave it as that.

In the celluloid-type of justification though, probably mouthed by someone donning something Victorian as far back (sort of) as Ava Gardner's ringlets, this could also be my answer: I am doing this, this kind of writing, for my readers.

I had beed hankering for space which I equate with print, a column space, something that goes into press, something that is carried by a bow-legged boy in baseball cap at 6:00 a.m. that sells the newspaper with my byline peeking out from his armpit to a man in tie who reads it over his black coffee---I had been wanting this kind of reading set-up until it hit me right on my nose bridge that I am complaining for sorely, naught. I have THIS space. Much more, I do not have "normal" readers. I presume they have strung together column spaces of their own or with much humility to this group, are owners of these column spaces.

The best homage given to this writer, with her little sentence ripples that created some funny splashes in one tiny globe, came from a foreign magazine which naturally fused my concerns in one issue (lit-pol-cult areas). The people behind that issue made my blog not only walk but RUN and they wrote introductions worth to get plaqued (not the teeth, but recognition plaques--if Kerouac can do T-shirted, surely I can do plaqued). They hit the heads of my sentences' nails without being high-handed. That's as a group.

Individually, my best readers reside in my country and they are now squinting their eyes. Thank you very much.

Why do writers write? To whittle down the world like that orchid guy played by the actor Cooper explained? How about this:

When I do my marketing (if you are genuinely putting my words in the receptacles of your memory, an activity that often produce apparitions of the third kind) you will recognize that it is my favorite subject.

I have seen some of Brunettes Osmosis' circle. Some looked like they came from concentration camps but it is all good. The writers of words wore their syntax (kind of) on their faces, flesh-packed in one jeepney. Accompanying my free spirits. Anyhow, I have to single out one aging man who offered me boiled peanuts (these people always munch this brain food like they want to enlarge their brains in proportion with Hulk Hogan's biceps. I am sure he came from Tahiti, labored in Italy if he is not plowing the field in my hometown. He brought along dirty sacks, and bags, and some food. He looked like he came from the farm. Soiled pants, sweaty shirt, tangy smell. But kind. Here is the whopper though, where the spaceship enters with the clouds clouding if this were sci-fi, this is the slambanging visual: With his very proud plebeian look (I admire that), his cap had never looked so spaceborn and overpowering. It killed all the smell in that jeepney, if I were to describe it in precocious detail.

Picture this with his look: His cap had never looked so happily forlorn and radiant, worn backward, an authentic (not a counterfeit) black denim D&G. It transplanted itself from a brand to....I could not write this, that hemline guy will throw the volcano at me, accusing, you are such a sell-out, but I am not....the cap became a cultural smirk, kick-ass accessory. It is really a pretty sight, the absence of symmetry of the head apparel to the environment. His head is 16 years old, the body, 50 plus. That's out of the box in surprise random.

Oh, the musicians. Under the care of strums and drums, there is an awful lot of vibe on the road, like Kerouac, but with a purpose. Keep the flow flowing even if some people nitpick your tremendously unmonolithic life structures. Creem friends. Creem. Lester Bangs too. Be honest even if it means being unmerciful.

Now, there is really a world of affinity OUT THERE. Some walk. Some run. Some sit down. Some stare. Some sell. Some buy. Some.....just float.

I write because there are subjects worth writing about. There's my answer.