This week I rescinded my resignation from the LAR as much in a huff as I had left a year ago, and began work as its editor. I could not allow it to go to publication in the shape I saw it in last week, so I've spent most of the past few days mopping up the slop that was tossed upon its innocent pages. One section reminded me of Jackson Pollock's work: Lift a bucket full of text and hurl it upon the page. Thoughts of Pollock's work carried me through the painful editing period of that section, so riddled with run-on sentences, omissions, and repetition. I wish that the LAR could have more information about the art work it shows, such as the kind of media and the dimensions, and I can pursue those next week. Our focus for next year will lie in publishing all new artists with strict exceptions. A group of directors will manage the content of the LAR from now on; our hope is that with a larger group of people gathering for content, the book will seem refreshed with the work of new artists and writers with each passing year.
The theme for the next issue is "Looking Toward the East."
We are casting our net for more artists and writers.
If you ever find yourself in Oklahoma City and have a hunkerin' for . . . fish tacos, a mug of clam chowder, or a crispy Caesar's salad . . . visit the folks at Pearl's Fish House. Watch the video to familiarize yourself with their charm. Scroll below for some images I took today while MyMrMallory and I munched on hush puppies. Not one to feel willing to eat hush puppies, I ate these with relish for their crunchiness and tasty seasonings. In addition to tasty food, the ambiance seemed fun and the music peppy.
No wind for the sun drenched -- not rain drenched sock at Kickapoo Airport. The sock sags pitiably, seemingly forgotten by the wind and the repair crews. As a pilot I gaze at it to check the wind direction and strength. Today I noted with further dismay its ragged looks. Pessimistically, the winds will come again, and from the north, too, bringing cooler temperatures and maybe even some rain, and the sock will blow again, and will become frayed at its small end, or the strength of the winds will finish yanking it off its frame.
Listen, will you? I think that . . . literature, poetry, music and love make the world go round . . . while mathematics explains things; I fill my life with them, then go walking in snowy woods. Let us go then, you and I like two etherized patients floating through life, together feeling prufrockian. DDB Jr. makes my world go 'round; during his absence, Pachelbel fills it up. One summer I sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, then through the Gulf of Finland to reach Saint Petersburg; I pursued Joseph Brodsky in its alley ways. I dream of making that two summers. I read “Biking to Electra;” found my way in a Jaguar car, and glanced at the flashing steel grasshoppers at sunset. I’ll follow K.O.P.’s footsteps after he followed N.Scott Momaday’s; find warmth and inspiration on a rainy mountain. Throw chinese coins for the I Ching. Save the whales, the spotted owl, the woman in toil. Cast a fly for trout; my memories of fly fishing under the sunny blue Colorado sky remain; I yearn to build more . . . with more trophy Browns. Listen for the swan’s calls on the Baltic Sea. Feel KKII's joy, his arms spread wide in Yazilikaya. Good night, Jimmy Durante, where ever you are.