Pactiser Avec Le Diable

Look it up if you don’t know what it means. I would also like to point out that French is the language of skunks. No joke, it really is. I once knew a skunk and, while many people mistook it for a kitten, a brief interaction, and a translator with a keen nose, is all that was required to pick up on a refined sensibility and impeccable manners.

Hello Tribe.

I thought I would dish up something nice, something to get you inspired to go bleed some ink; to splash your thoughts across a page that, in an unnamed time frame, will be retrieved from a landfill and cataloged as evidence of our great demise.

Is it working?

I don’t write in notebooks because I live with people who can read! Think about that.

The truth is; I don’t have a method, I don’t write a certain number of words per day and I certainly don’t write them on paper. I did, however, take English in high school, so there’s that at least.

I type with three fingers and, whatever gibber jabber comes out, it doesn’t come from me. I consult the tarot, commune with the dead and channel ideas from other dimensions.

I once recounted the details of a horrific murder to which there were no witnesses. I knew the victim and, after her ghost scared the shit out of me in the middle of the night, I spent three days asking her what she wanted me to say. At the end of the 3rd day she started talking and I tapped out 3471 words on the screen of my iPhone while laying in bed. You can read that story here if you like.

I am of the opinion that practice makes proficiency but it doesn’t make art. Genius can be facilitated but not taught. Don’t take my word for it. I’m just a smart ass with a sinister gift, after all. Try it for yourself. Forget all that brain-space wasting shit that you know and let a dragonfly alight on your finger.

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