Jon, of Lone Star Concerto [He's in my Other Journals as The Piano
Man], is writing again after taking a couple of months off. I
pimped his new journal a few weeks back -- the old one has been cut
loose like a tumbleweed on the internet -- but after reading his
musings this morning, I have to pimp it again.
He writes like that dead guy that wrote Deliverance. Oh, yes, James
Dickey. Poetry wrapped in prose. He has more deep thoughts than I
have dust fuzzies. [Even if I only had one fuzzy, he'd be ahead of me.]
The title of this entry is a joke, by the way, because Jon is already a
writer. He's also an accomplished pianist -- anyone who can get paid to
play the piano is Rubinstein to me. And Jon can play the stuff
that ends in "concerto." I bet he's never had to resort to taking requests for "Feelings."
He's also full of more angst than a Woody Allen movie. Especially if
Woody Allen movies gave up trying to be funny. [Oh wait, they already have]. Maybe his writing is
more like the humor in Pulp Fiction. You laugh in between the madness
and mayhem, most of which is slamming into the walls of his mind.
Every time I read what he writes my imagination lights up in color. Making me feel like the
stuff I write here is like chalk on the sidewalk by comparison. He's
Gauguin. I'm not.
Which reminds me, I was lamenting my ennui in this space to another
journaler. He suggested that I hook up my tongue to a nine volt
battery. Where do I get a nine volt battery?
Read Jon, you won't be disappointed. Maybe some of your unused brain cells will kick in.