I don’t sit at my laptop and demand inspiration. I’m not a structured writer. I guess that means I’m no Virginia Woolf. I certainly don’t have a room of my own. I don’t write in my car, like Raymond Carver. I can’t write while lying down like Truman Capote. Most of the time, I can’t … write. Honestly, I lack discipline when it comes to anything other than working out how to satisfy the most pressing of financial obligations.
But I cast a net far and wide when I’m fishing for fascination. I don’t remember how I arrived at medlars. But I got to them, eventually, via Wikipedia. The tangential quality of the internet is remedial to my scattered attention span. Call it the Amazon.com model if you like. Customers who bought The Essential Neruda (Bilinqual Edition) also bought American Power Pull 144 1 Ton Cable Puller (I’d like to shake their hands).
But at medlars I did arrive. And from there I learned about bletting. And from there sprang forth an orgiastic rite that somehow implicated Cervantes. Señor, I do beg your pardon.
See, I’m lacking for good ideas. So I need tools. Burroughs had his cut ups. The Romans had their entrails. I have the Internet.
Can you spot the dead chick? Hey, if I’ve gone “beyond ripening” to a place that perhaps-too-salaciously embraces human life in the aspects of its culinary and agricultural innovation, I can also indulge in a little morbid fascination. Am I right?