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Feng Shui This
Saturday, August 4, 2012 20:49
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DONALD O’DONOVAN
 |
| Original “Hollywood” sign, with Peg Entwistle’s haunting picture superimposed |
Brunsvigga
is here with us now, one of the androgynous doyennes of the night, a hulking
lesbian with muscles of steel and a shrill piercing whinny that’s guaranteed to
set your teeth on edge. Brunsvigga is Joffker’s keeper, his aide de camp, his
nursemaid. Joffker? Joffker is a blob of undifferentiated protoplasm hooked up
to a fierce mental dynamo. He spends his days wrestling with his pain. He’s
peering at me from his couch as I write this on a yellow pad, his head a dream
machine cranked by a dyslectic monkey, his gaze the goopy stare of a
tranquilized koala bear. Now he’s swimming toward me, his face blurred by a
lens of water. Some portion of Joffker is still alive—the ravening maw, the
distended stomach. All else the cancer of the mind has co-opted. Did you know,
Joffker, that “pain” is “bread” in French? Bread and pain, both ubiquitous, you
see. Give us this day our daily pain. Le
pain de campagne, le pain maudit, le pain perdu…
is here with us now, one of the androgynous doyennes of the night, a hulking
lesbian with muscles of steel and a shrill piercing whinny that’s guaranteed to
set your teeth on edge. Brunsvigga is Joffker’s keeper, his aide de camp, his
nursemaid. Joffker? Joffker is a blob of undifferentiated protoplasm hooked up
to a fierce mental dynamo. He spends his days wrestling with his pain. He’s
peering at me from his couch as I write this on a yellow pad, his head a dream
machine cranked by a dyslectic monkey, his gaze the goopy stare of a
tranquilized koala bear. Now he’s swimming toward me, his face blurred by a
lens of water. Some portion of Joffker is still alive—the ravening maw, the
distended stomach. All else the cancer of the mind has co-opted. Did you know,
Joffker, that “pain” is “bread” in French? Bread and pain, both ubiquitous, you
see. Give us this day our daily pain. Le
pain de campagne, le pain maudit, le pain perdu…
Brunsvigga
is Joffker’s boiler tender. It’s she who stokes the furnace, the fiery furnace
of Joffker’s suffering, with shovel after shovelful of coal as he goes down and
down into the bituminous blackness of his despair. And now the place is full of
coal dust and we’re all sneezing away like a bunch of diseased rats. We’ve got
black lung disease, the lot of us, not surprising because these days the whole
fucking world is diseased, because this is the 21st century and the
shell of the World Egg is cracking and the albumen is pouring out the windows
faster than the bastards can shovel it back in. Poor Humpty Dumpty! It was a
beautiful world, wasn’t it, I mean once upon a time? You could drink the water,
you could breathe the air. But now the question is, can Humpty Dumpty be put
back together again? Answer: I doubt it like hell.
is Joffker’s boiler tender. It’s she who stokes the furnace, the fiery furnace
of Joffker’s suffering, with shovel after shovelful of coal as he goes down and
down into the bituminous blackness of his despair. And now the place is full of
coal dust and we’re all sneezing away like a bunch of diseased rats. We’ve got
black lung disease, the lot of us, not surprising because these days the whole
fucking world is diseased, because this is the 21st century and the
shell of the World Egg is cracking and the albumen is pouring out the windows
faster than the bastards can shovel it back in. Poor Humpty Dumpty! It was a
beautiful world, wasn’t it, I mean once upon a time? You could drink the water,
you could breathe the air. But now the question is, can Humpty Dumpty be put
back together again? Answer: I doubt it like hell.
We’ve
got rats too, real ones, or at least Big Edna says we do. She claims she can’t
sleep because she hears them inside the walls at night, creeping, chewing,
squeaking, smacking their lips and pissing everywhere. She sees their tiny
feverish eyes, their twinkling noses, their twitching whiskers, as she tosses
and turns, her mind a maggot heap of crawling thoughts. She’s awake half the
night, poor thing, praying to the Baby Jesus. Big Edna sleeps with Joffker’s
umbilical cord under her pillow, she cherishes his fetal lifeline as one might
cherish the decaying relic of a saint, but all this mumbo-jumbo hasn’t helped
much with the rats, so she keeps Olaf busy setting out traps. “Olaf, be sure
and put more traps behind the fridge,” she’ll say, wringing her hands. “There’s
a nest back there, I’m sure of it.” Big Edna’s hands are a sight to behold, the
fingers and thumbs pitted and raw, the nails splintered from cracking pistachio
nuts. Big Edna is addicted to pistachio nuts. Not surprising because pistachio
nuts are extremely addictive. I’m becoming addicted to pistachio nuts myself,
in fact. But that’s neither here nor there.
got rats too, real ones, or at least Big Edna says we do. She claims she can’t
sleep because she hears them inside the walls at night, creeping, chewing,
squeaking, smacking their lips and pissing everywhere. She sees their tiny
feverish eyes, their twinkling noses, their twitching whiskers, as she tosses
and turns, her mind a maggot heap of crawling thoughts. She’s awake half the
night, poor thing, praying to the Baby Jesus. Big Edna sleeps with Joffker’s
umbilical cord under her pillow, she cherishes his fetal lifeline as one might
cherish the decaying relic of a saint, but all this mumbo-jumbo hasn’t helped
much with the rats, so she keeps Olaf busy setting out traps. “Olaf, be sure
and put more traps behind the fridge,” she’ll say, wringing her hands. “There’s
a nest back there, I’m sure of it.” Big Edna’s hands are a sight to behold, the
fingers and thumbs pitted and raw, the nails splintered from cracking pistachio
nuts. Big Edna is addicted to pistachio nuts. Not surprising because pistachio
nuts are extremely addictive. I’m becoming addicted to pistachio nuts myself,
in fact. But that’s neither here nor there.
Olaf’s
our rat-catcher, by the way. He’s been elected. Olaf’s our in-house Pied Piper.
“Yahh, yahh,” Olaf replies, patting his big belly. Later, after he empties the
garbage and tightens up the doofilckus on the gas stove. There’s plenty of
time, plenty of time for everything. “Yahh, yahh,” he intones. Every time I
hear that raspy mellow yahh, yahh of
Olaf’s, his voice seems to echo over the rooftops of the world, it embraces and
informs the entire sentient universe. It’s a voice from a bygone age, a voice
from a lost age of innocence, it’s the glad cry of a chanticleer proclaiming,
in spite of everything, that all’s right with the world.
our rat-catcher, by the way. He’s been elected. Olaf’s our in-house Pied Piper.
“Yahh, yahh,” Olaf replies, patting his big belly. Later, after he empties the
garbage and tightens up the doofilckus on the gas stove. There’s plenty of
time, plenty of time for everything. “Yahh, yahh,” he intones. Every time I
hear that raspy mellow yahh, yahh of
Olaf’s, his voice seems to echo over the rooftops of the world, it embraces and
informs the entire sentient universe. It’s a voice from a bygone age, a voice
from a lost age of innocence, it’s the glad cry of a chanticleer proclaiming,
in spite of everything, that all’s right with the world.
Olaf is
what is called a good soul. Unlike Joffker and Brunsvigga and Big Edna, his
mind’s not on a rampage. Instead, his head is filled with the nuts and bolts of
life. Practicality. “Yahh, yahh,” he
mutters, his mild blue eyes twinkling behind his rimless glasses as he makes
his rounds, pruning the shrubs, fixing a faucet, bathing the leaves of the
rubber plant with milk, his shaggy mane of white hair tucked into a tattered
tweed workman’s cap cocked at a jaunty angle. Olaf, as far as I’m concerned, is
the only healthy inmate of this godforsaken lunatic asylum. The man is none too
bright and he’s immeasurably better off for it, if you want my opinion. As long
as he can fill his belly and empty his bowels, what’s to worry? No angst and no
Weltschmerz for this man. “Yahh, yahh,” he says, patting his big belly. It’s an
entity in its own right, Olaf’s belly. It intrigues me the way Olaf plods along
with a solemn shuffling gait as if he were wheeling that enormous belly of his
in a wheelbarrow. If you ever saw him coming at you, you’d want to salute that
belly, trust me, same as you’d salute a fucking bird colonel or a five-star
general.
what is called a good soul. Unlike Joffker and Brunsvigga and Big Edna, his
mind’s not on a rampage. Instead, his head is filled with the nuts and bolts of
life. Practicality. “Yahh, yahh,” he
mutters, his mild blue eyes twinkling behind his rimless glasses as he makes
his rounds, pruning the shrubs, fixing a faucet, bathing the leaves of the
rubber plant with milk, his shaggy mane of white hair tucked into a tattered
tweed workman’s cap cocked at a jaunty angle. Olaf, as far as I’m concerned, is
the only healthy inmate of this godforsaken lunatic asylum. The man is none too
bright and he’s immeasurably better off for it, if you want my opinion. As long
as he can fill his belly and empty his bowels, what’s to worry? No angst and no
Weltschmerz for this man. “Yahh, yahh,” he says, patting his big belly. It’s an
entity in its own right, Olaf’s belly. It intrigues me the way Olaf plods along
with a solemn shuffling gait as if he were wheeling that enormous belly of his
in a wheelbarrow. If you ever saw him coming at you, you’d want to salute that
belly, trust me, same as you’d salute a fucking bird colonel or a five-star
general.
Meanwhile
the rats are busy behind the fridge, gnawing, squirming, squeezing out little
black turds, their “Kalamata olives,” and Joffker is swimming in amniotic fluid
and Big Edna is cracking pistachio nuts and Brunsvigga is chronicling it all in
her autobiography, “The Story of MY PAIN,” which she’s writing on a roll of bloody
white butcher paper with a felt-tip pen. From time to time she wets the point
of her pen by sticking the pen up her ass. “God, that feels good,” she
whimpers. “If only it weren’t for this fucking coal dust…”
the rats are busy behind the fridge, gnawing, squirming, squeezing out little
black turds, their “Kalamata olives,” and Joffker is swimming in amniotic fluid
and Big Edna is cracking pistachio nuts and Brunsvigga is chronicling it all in
her autobiography, “The Story of MY PAIN,” which she’s writing on a roll of bloody
white butcher paper with a felt-tip pen. From time to time she wets the point
of her pen by sticking the pen up her ass. “God, that feels good,” she
whimpers. “If only it weren’t for this fucking coal dust…”
Olaf
steps briskly to the fridge, cracks open a beer and sucks it down in a single
gulp. “Aahhh!” he exclaims. He mops the beer foam off his walrus mustache with
his shirtsleeve, smiling contentedly as he rummages in the pocket of his
coveralls for a screwdriver, then he lets out a tremendous belch. Aahhh again. Life is good. He hums to
himself, a little ditty, then bursts into song, “Im Himmel gibt’s kein Bier, drum trinken wire es hier…”
steps briskly to the fridge, cracks open a beer and sucks it down in a single
gulp. “Aahhh!” he exclaims. He mops the beer foam off his walrus mustache with
his shirtsleeve, smiling contentedly as he rummages in the pocket of his
coveralls for a screwdriver, then he lets out a tremendous belch. Aahhh again. Life is good. He hums to
himself, a little ditty, then bursts into song, “Im Himmel gibt’s kein Bier, drum trinken wire es hier…”
It’s
the beginning of my third month at this huge old house on Highland, and I think
I’ve found a home. The kitchen is my domain; I do the cooking, wrestle with the
pots and pans, etc. Every morning I cook breakfast for Big Edna, who owns the
place. We can see the Hollywood Sign from the front window, important, at least
to Big Edna, because she has a thing about the Hollywood Sign. She’s obsessed
with Peg Entwistle, the beautiful British actress who committed suicide in 1932
by jumping off the top the Hollywood Sign’s 50-foot tall letter “H.” She keeps
a list of recent Hollywood suicides, too, current victims of La La Land’s
bright lights. This probably means that she’s harboring a death wish, meaning
she’d like to off herself, something like that, or at least she likes to
imagine that she would.
the beginning of my third month at this huge old house on Highland, and I think
I’ve found a home. The kitchen is my domain; I do the cooking, wrestle with the
pots and pans, etc. Every morning I cook breakfast for Big Edna, who owns the
place. We can see the Hollywood Sign from the front window, important, at least
to Big Edna, because she has a thing about the Hollywood Sign. She’s obsessed
with Peg Entwistle, the beautiful British actress who committed suicide in 1932
by jumping off the top the Hollywood Sign’s 50-foot tall letter “H.” She keeps
a list of recent Hollywood suicides, too, current victims of La La Land’s
bright lights. This probably means that she’s harboring a death wish, meaning
she’d like to off herself, something like that, or at least she likes to
imagine that she would.
When
Brunsvigga first arrived from Reykjavik I thought she was Big Edna’s
psychotherapist, but it turns out she’s a colonic irrigation specialist. She
gives Big Edna a high enema every night and I cook her breakfast in the
morning. That way we’ve got both ends covered.
Brunsvigga first arrived from Reykjavik I thought she was Big Edna’s
psychotherapist, but it turns out she’s a colonic irrigation specialist. She
gives Big Edna a high enema every night and I cook her breakfast in the
morning. That way we’ve got both ends covered.
It’s
tragic what life does to beautiful girls. Not just the ones like Peg Entwistle
who commit suicide, I don’t mean that. I’m talking about the passage of time,
what it does to you. Take Big Edna, for instance. Big Edna was beautiful once.
Now she looks like the Piltdown Man. How do I know Big Edna was beautiful?
There’s a photo of her in the dining room, a family portrait featuring her
mother and father and three sisters perched demurely on a sofa, obviously
America, 1950’s. Interesting, because people were still halfway human back
then, and the young girls with their dreamy, creamy expressions are smiling in
a sickly half disbelieving way as if they’d just gotten a sudden glimpse of the
sorry fucking circus into which they were about to be launched like svelte
kissy-wet torpedoes.
tragic what life does to beautiful girls. Not just the ones like Peg Entwistle
who commit suicide, I don’t mean that. I’m talking about the passage of time,
what it does to you. Take Big Edna, for instance. Big Edna was beautiful once.
Now she looks like the Piltdown Man. How do I know Big Edna was beautiful?
There’s a photo of her in the dining room, a family portrait featuring her
mother and father and three sisters perched demurely on a sofa, obviously
America, 1950’s. Interesting, because people were still halfway human back
then, and the young girls with their dreamy, creamy expressions are smiling in
a sickly half disbelieving way as if they’d just gotten a sudden glimpse of the
sorry fucking circus into which they were about to be launched like svelte
kissy-wet torpedoes.
Fortunately
Big Edna has the sop of religion. “Give your pain to the Baby Jesus!” That’s
what I hear her telling Joffker all the time. “Give your pain to the Baby
Jesus!” As if the Baby Jesus didn’t already have enough pain. The Baby Jesus is
sorted for pain. That’s my conviction.
Big Edna has the sop of religion. “Give your pain to the Baby Jesus!” That’s
what I hear her telling Joffker all the time. “Give your pain to the Baby
Jesus!” As if the Baby Jesus didn’t already have enough pain. The Baby Jesus is
sorted for pain. That’s my conviction.
Later.
Joffker and Brunsvigga are arguing so I’ve moved my yellow pad into the
bathroom in order to take advantage of the peace and quiet. It never fails: Big
Edna goes out for pistachio nuts and the rest of these dizzy bastards get up to
their tricks. But fortunately the bathtub faucet leaks, and there’s something
wonderfully refreshing and restorative, I find, about the musical gurgle of
flowing water. The bathroom walls are plastered with cautionary signs penned by
Big Edna: “Turn hot water OFF, Flush toilet FOUR TIMES, three short, one long,”
etc. This is how people communicate in this fucking 21st century of
ours. They scribble notes in Morse Code to each other on shithouse walls. Three
short and one long. It’s the American way. One if by land and two if by sea.
Joffker and Brunsvigga are arguing so I’ve moved my yellow pad into the
bathroom in order to take advantage of the peace and quiet. It never fails: Big
Edna goes out for pistachio nuts and the rest of these dizzy bastards get up to
their tricks. But fortunately the bathtub faucet leaks, and there’s something
wonderfully refreshing and restorative, I find, about the musical gurgle of
flowing water. The bathroom walls are plastered with cautionary signs penned by
Big Edna: “Turn hot water OFF, Flush toilet FOUR TIMES, three short, one long,”
etc. This is how people communicate in this fucking 21st century of
ours. They scribble notes in Morse Code to each other on shithouse walls. Three
short and one long. It’s the American way. One if by land and two if by sea.
I
never intended to move into this huge old house on Highland in the first place.
The whole thing was Starz’s idea, Starz and Tiffany, but I rode in on Starz’s
coattails and one day flowed into another and things happened and I stayed on. Pretty
soon Bernie, a retired jockey, joined us. Bernie was the quiet sort, spent most
of his time in his room with a needle and a spoon. Next door to Bernie lived a
man with Parkinson’s disease who roamed the halls at night holding his
fluttering hands in front of him as if they were on display. Street girls came
and went, and Zelda, older, obviously insane, wore tiny tight short skirts and
thought the rest of us were stalking her. She’d crouch, reach in her purse and
snap your photo. Then Tiffany and Starz vanished. You never knew with Starz.
Here he comes, there he goes. Starz wasn’t the sort of person who stays in one
place for long.
never intended to move into this huge old house on Highland in the first place.
The whole thing was Starz’s idea, Starz and Tiffany, but I rode in on Starz’s
coattails and one day flowed into another and things happened and I stayed on. Pretty
soon Bernie, a retired jockey, joined us. Bernie was the quiet sort, spent most
of his time in his room with a needle and a spoon. Next door to Bernie lived a
man with Parkinson’s disease who roamed the halls at night holding his
fluttering hands in front of him as if they were on display. Street girls came
and went, and Zelda, older, obviously insane, wore tiny tight short skirts and
thought the rest of us were stalking her. She’d crouch, reach in her purse and
snap your photo. Then Tiffany and Starz vanished. You never knew with Starz.
Here he comes, there he goes. Starz wasn’t the sort of person who stays in one
place for long.
After
that things were quiet for a while. I’d mostly sit by the pool playing checkers
with the jockey and mooning over Doreen. I tried not to think about Doreen but
one day I saw two gossamer-winged damselflies hovering above the pool in a
close abdominal embrace and that reminded me of Doreen. Everything reminded me
of Doreen. I was sinking into a blue funk. Then Vanessa showed up, Vanessa from
Azuza. Vanessa from Azusa was going to teach me about opera. “You so need to add opera to your portfolio,”
she counseled. There’d been a rash of proletariat heroes in the movies lately
who were opera buffs, she explained. I’m not saying I was in love with Vanessa
from Azusa. Besides, Vanessa wasn’t around long. Vanessa from Azusa moved out
right after the Colombians showed up. I remember because it was just a few days
before the jockey died. The Colombians were a handful, believe me. They’d creep
into the kitchen in the dead of night. I’d make something communal like
spaghetti or lasagna and they were on it like piranhas.
that things were quiet for a while. I’d mostly sit by the pool playing checkers
with the jockey and mooning over Doreen. I tried not to think about Doreen but
one day I saw two gossamer-winged damselflies hovering above the pool in a
close abdominal embrace and that reminded me of Doreen. Everything reminded me
of Doreen. I was sinking into a blue funk. Then Vanessa showed up, Vanessa from
Azuza. Vanessa from Azusa was going to teach me about opera. “You so need to add opera to your portfolio,”
she counseled. There’d been a rash of proletariat heroes in the movies lately
who were opera buffs, she explained. I’m not saying I was in love with Vanessa
from Azusa. Besides, Vanessa wasn’t around long. Vanessa from Azusa moved out
right after the Colombians showed up. I remember because it was just a few days
before the jockey died. The Colombians were a handful, believe me. They’d creep
into the kitchen in the dead of night. I’d make something communal like
spaghetti or lasagna and they were on it like piranhas.
Then
the Cambodians arrived, and one thing and another happened and Brunsvigga
pitched a hissy fit. Claimed that one of the Cambodians had stolen her gym bag
containing her steroids and syringes, her passport and a 14-inch jellyrubber
strap-on manufactured in Mogadishu. Of course the Cambodians said it was the
Colombians that did it and the Colombians the Cambodians and so on.
the Cambodians arrived, and one thing and another happened and Brunsvigga
pitched a hissy fit. Claimed that one of the Cambodians had stolen her gym bag
containing her steroids and syringes, her passport and a 14-inch jellyrubber
strap-on manufactured in Mogadishu. Of course the Cambodians said it was the
Colombians that did it and the Colombians the Cambodians and so on.
A couple
nights ago a savage earthquake jolted me right out of bed. Three point five on
the Richter Scale, Brunsvigga said. Brunsvigga prides herself on reading the
newspapers. She thinks that makes her a normal person. There’ve been tremors
recently all along the San Andreas Fault over the past few days, she says. I
don’t doubt it. The Earth is getting ready to shrug off the obscene fungus of
civilization. Yesterday morning another jolt that nearly shook the house off
its foundations. I thought it was the Big One, I figured sure enough Los
Angeles is sinking into the Pacific Ocean like the lost continent of Atlantis
as the seismologists have been saying it will, but it turned out that
Brunsvigga dropped an Olympic bar and it went halfway through the kitchen
floor.
nights ago a savage earthquake jolted me right out of bed. Three point five on
the Richter Scale, Brunsvigga said. Brunsvigga prides herself on reading the
newspapers. She thinks that makes her a normal person. There’ve been tremors
recently all along the San Andreas Fault over the past few days, she says. I
don’t doubt it. The Earth is getting ready to shrug off the obscene fungus of
civilization. Yesterday morning another jolt that nearly shook the house off
its foundations. I thought it was the Big One, I figured sure enough Los
Angeles is sinking into the Pacific Ocean like the lost continent of Atlantis
as the seismologists have been saying it will, but it turned out that
Brunsvigga dropped an Olympic bar and it went halfway through the kitchen
floor.
Several
days have passed and Olaf has done a number on the rats. He put the zap on
them. Poison. He’s been roaming the house with his pitchfork all morning
spearing rat carcasses behind the fridge, behind the stove, etc. Now it’s
afternoon and the rest of us are sitting around the kitchen table munching
bread and swilling wine, and Brunsvigga’s segmented torso is gleaming with
sweat and her coconut-size deltoids are bulging with branching blue veins.
She’s been doing lateral raises with 60-pound dumbbells in between sets of
heavy hack squats. Our bread, baked in thermodynamic ovens, basted with
benzotrichloride and dimethyl aminoazobenzene, is buttered with coal dust and
rat poison. Le pain perdu, if you
will. But no one seems to mind, as
long as there’s plenty of wine to wash it down.
days have passed and Olaf has done a number on the rats. He put the zap on
them. Poison. He’s been roaming the house with his pitchfork all morning
spearing rat carcasses behind the fridge, behind the stove, etc. Now it’s
afternoon and the rest of us are sitting around the kitchen table munching
bread and swilling wine, and Brunsvigga’s segmented torso is gleaming with
sweat and her coconut-size deltoids are bulging with branching blue veins.
She’s been doing lateral raises with 60-pound dumbbells in between sets of
heavy hack squats. Our bread, baked in thermodynamic ovens, basted with
benzotrichloride and dimethyl aminoazobenzene, is buttered with coal dust and
rat poison. Le pain perdu, if you
will. But no one seems to mind, as
long as there’s plenty of wine to wash it down.
And
there’s more good news. The flies have arrived, Olaf informs us with a jovial
grin, poking his shaggy head in the kitchen door. They’re buzzing everywhere. A
good sign because it means there are more dead rats, more rat carcasses rotting
inside the walls. Soon our nostrils will be filled with the sweet sickish smell
of decaying rat husks along with sulphur and brimstone and we’ll dance a merry
maggot dance while Olaf jabs at us with his devil’s pitchfork. But everything’s
ducky, really. There’s a big hole in the kitchen floor and we’re sinking into
the Pacific Ocean and our bread is buttered with benzotrichloride and we’re out
of pistachio nuts, but I’m over Doreen and we can see the Hollywood Sign from
our window. And the Baby Jesus is here with us. Did I mention that? And I’m
writing it all down on a yellow pad or on the shithouse wall, whichever you
like. It comes to the same thing. In Morse Code, I should have added. One if by
land and two if by sea…
there’s more good news. The flies have arrived, Olaf informs us with a jovial
grin, poking his shaggy head in the kitchen door. They’re buzzing everywhere. A
good sign because it means there are more dead rats, more rat carcasses rotting
inside the walls. Soon our nostrils will be filled with the sweet sickish smell
of decaying rat husks along with sulphur and brimstone and we’ll dance a merry
maggot dance while Olaf jabs at us with his devil’s pitchfork. But everything’s
ducky, really. There’s a big hole in the kitchen floor and we’re sinking into
the Pacific Ocean and our bread is buttered with benzotrichloride and we’re out
of pistachio nuts, but I’m over Doreen and we can see the Hollywood Sign from
our window. And the Baby Jesus is here with us. Did I mention that? And I’m
writing it all down on a yellow pad or on the shithouse wall, whichever you
like. It comes to the same thing. In Morse Code, I should have added. One if by
land and two if by sea…
Donald O’Donovan wrote the first draft of Night Train (Open Books, 2010) on 23 yellow legal pads while homeless in the streets of LA. His other novels include Tarantula Woman, The Sugarhouse and Highway. An optioned screenwriter and voice actor with film and audio book credits, Donald O’Donovan lives mostly in Los Angeles. He can be reached at: [email protected]
m
Find a list of O’Donovan’s books here. See O’Donovan’s other pieces on DDA: The Novel As Graffiti, Cardboard Villages, Simon Rodia, Architect of Dreams, and I Live Under Your Wallpaper
2012-08-04 20:45:47
Source: http://www.deardirtyamerica.com/2012/08/feng-shui-this.html
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