Franny Mae Rutkovsky co-curated a mail art show
in the Governor's Square Mall, in Tallahassee. I went,
and took Owen with me. My contribution was a stack of books
with a sign saying, "Free - take one." Owen recognized most of
the artists hung, from seeing their work on the walls of my writing studio,
my eyrie. The second upstairs bedroom of Pop Cason's house, looking out at
the window of the second bedroom of The Cottage I used to write at, looking at
the window of my eyrie. Boxes within boxes. Some art professors from the college
drinking screw-top jug-wine out of plastic champagne flutes were not impressed.
They talked shop. I almost lost it, like Jesus throwing the moneychangers out
of the temple. I almost challenged them to a duel. Caned them with my walking stick.
Gave them a tight-end forearm-shiver. Loosen their teeth. Rattle their brackets.
I wrote a play about the trip and videotaped myself reading it.
When Fran sent the show to Orlando, she sent the video with it.
You could hear me droning on, in a monotone, deadpan,
about the most horrific kinds of violence, like Buster Keaton in
the Samuel Beckett movie, Film. Krapp's Last Tape.
Large Pyle's Last Writers Conference. You're not going to have
me to kick around much longer. My head is going to explode, like
an overinflated rubber. How big a boy are you?
I'm going to come down there and whip your ass.