I call CULT WRITER the great American
novel and assert that only a cult writer could have written it. In fact, only a
hick, of a certain age. A Florida cracker.
The shape of the book was influenced
by black music, modern painting, art films, Cajun cuisine, Latin music, especially
Afro-Cuban jazz, and the Southeastern Indian.
I call my coterie of steadfast
readers the Buzzard Cult, after the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex, a revitalization
movement that swept the Lower Mississippi Valley just before and after European contact.
I don't have no cult, I have a very small cult. High one-, low-two figures.
But all you need is one or two readers.
None, and you're crazy. Two or three
and you're just in a minority. Outnumbered. Ahead of your time.
The great
American novel is always ahead of its time. It's out there where the leaves tremble.
I'm back here with a chainsaw, holding on for dear life.
People see my white
cotton painter pants and ask, "Are you a painter?"
"No, I'm
a surgeon."
"I meant a housepainter."
"I meant
a tree surgeon. Want to see my climbing gaffs?"
I look like one of
The Village People.
I guess homosexuals influenced me, too.
How could
they not?
And feminists. Bless their hearts.
Something to offend
everyone.
The Florida cracker is prima facie a racist, but doesn't
think of himself as one. A sure sign of racism. Do you think you're one?
Probably not.