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Show 65, Jeffries, Islamorada tunneling on the old Interurban, up from under old railroad ties to peer at them with dirt and cinders in his whiskers, the face of a mining engineer. And earththrower, the mole. Ladybirds, glowworms, and the loud presence of insects hushed in diapause. The proud mantis-a rear-horse- on the screen, and the high benign motion of a harvestman across her comforter. For Cricket Magazine she wrote Halloween orange Witch-cat black, again Convoluting orange The Wooly-bear has come To warn Of an early winter "I want to be a writer," he'd said. "Well that's a fine idea." "I mean take this crap that we're watching, what they are running by me here, the credits, a Dick Clark Production for ABC, it says, The Werewolf of Woodstock. I could write this stuff, better even." "Of course." "What does it take, Row, how do you do it? Hell I lie here like some mute inglorious Milton and watch you at the roll-top desk-is your magician's secret simply hard work? I think I'll quit teaching and write. Before I throw one of those eighth graders out a third-story window." |
