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Show 20, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] "A writer. Whaddya write, adventure? Would you believe I've heard the skunk-ape in the rimlands, your bigfoot, whickering nights, on the edge of the 'glades. My trained ear has differentiated him screaming from a cypress island at the airboats. "And the moog music of those fogs. There are odd things that happen in these islands, boy. Queer things, that were you to have the luck, maybe the bad luck, to see one, you'd think it strange as the planet Mongo, and disproportionate as. . .as a sunflower." "This is what I need to know. Your local color. You see a good premise, a direction in writing is discovery-of-self-in-place." "I think I follow you. Well then I can tell you about the first trimotor, like an ancient bird above the mangroves, or a panther strolling an old macadam road--?" He cocked his head, quizzically. "And, turn of the century, in the Florida Everglades, so many birds, the birds. . . were. . ." "I suppose the birds were moving like women's hats." Now I got him all wound up and heading into the quantitative stuff, Dory thought, with some exasperation. "I've got a parrot that says pieces of eight--" Row warned him. . . "--that's got the great bloodlines back to a speech-gifted bird from a company of the nasty men that flew their black warning pennant, the poison flag. . ." |