A guy called from the airport in Miami. Peter Küstermann. He and
Angela Pähler were flying back to Germany and had a couple of days
to kill before their flight. They were out of money. They wanted to know
if it was safe to sleep in their rental car. I said it was not. I said to drive
to Delray Beach, 50 miles north, and we would put them up and feed them.
He was on sabbatical. He took some time off to come to America and shoot
a film on mail-art artists and she came with him to be his cameraperson.
They had been across the country and were going home. They said that
everywhere they stopped, people told them that when they got to Florida
they should get in touch with me. They were vegetarians. I made
scalloped potatoes and left out the ham. We went to a Steak & Ale
and they got the salad bar. He interviewed me and she shot the footage.
They only spent one night. Possibly two. The next day, they were on their way.
Later, I read the accounts of other mail-art people about talking to them,
or seeing the finished film. I haven't seen it. I think Carol Stetser talked to
them in Oatman, Arizona. They are now Angela & Peter Netmail.
I'd like to go on a trip like that some day. Or I would have liked to,
back when I was able. Now, I'd have to turn down a cruise to Tahiti.
I don't have the energy. I'm afraid to be away from my writing room.
I'm like Harry Crews without the brain tumor.
Would I have been a good writing professor?
We'll never know. I think I was a good writer,
but it could be vanity. Not too many other people
seemed to think so. I didn't win any
fellowships or prizes. Any writer-in-residence
positions. Not even a book contract from New York
or Hollywood. No dues, no fees, all work exhibited,
as received. That is, no censorship. Documentation to
participants. I got a program saying I was in the show.
I showed, I was shown. I didn't hide my candle under
a bushel basket. I am the man, I suffered, I was there.
This is what it was like to be a Florida writer.