Things Left undone

He was 40. .Born the same year as Lincoln.

That’s the death mask of Edgar Allan Poe, America’s greatest writer, bar none. I had a sacred obligation to write the truth of this and I haven’t done it yet. Mark Twain isn’t even in the running.

I need to write about Paddy Chayefsky, because he did what I couldn’t do, coexist with the dirty guys of publishing and Hollywood. 

I need to write about Dame Helen Mirren. Why? She’s the most brilliant phony I’ve ever seen on film.

I had a writer’s obligation to finish what I started with Shuteye Town 1999, including a book length publication of all the concealed books inside Moon Books at the Shuteye Mall. Haven’t done that either.

I need to build a bridge to make the first complete — vastly huge — Internet novel ever written. I’m this close and still just sitting here on my ass, not doing it. Not blowing smoke. The bridge that must be built is between Johnny’s Last Chance Garage and Quantum19. When that is done, a lifetime of work is complete. But I am still just sitting here pitying myself for my first ever writer’s block. Not nearly done.

I wish I weren’t 68 years old. I wish my knees still worked. I wish I was a nicer guy. But none of those wishes can come true. If they could come true, I might not be prescient or, what’s the word nobody wants to use, brilliant.

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