Gone So for Stories/Mr. Wuzgudt

Storytelling? I am walking down familiar halls w/ unfamiliar people and activities. It was freebie time/weekend at school, folk festivalestivus at Kent. The Big Ticket and the Small Detective discovering the "event." Event is a sacred word. An event begins. Another event happens. Betwixt and between is "the moment." Impatient? You are waiting for maybe the next event? Time happens? It is a puzzle?

Storytelling and self-esteem? And I take my nerve for climbing five-twelve solo like a standard thirty years later, Stevie Nicks-Welsh witch Rianon, what is a thousand years to a witch, wander into a place I was meant to wander and w/ thinking cap, scars and signs of experience elsewise, I am where I am supposed to be. What is storytelling doing at amusic folk festival? Blank slate, blank learning mind's state, to associate new and old. Wait, now we are talking anthropology, survival and "elders" passing stories of the hard knocks, soft misnomered science, ambiguity-less total acceptance of what is on the blank sheet, drifting stones, skipping stones, stone you when your w/in, self and selfless, individual and group, identify sci-fi electrons and sparks from waloccks fingers, hand, roots and leaves and teas and teasing the mind w/ billibong and main street paths and the woods and baby snakes from the trail dancing springtime time vernal dance of the laws, the lords, lads and lasses, work, opus, arse, too short, the story is long, art is long, life too short.

Why am I here? I have left my village. I have gone seeking. I have been gone a long time this afternoon, chasing Alice from Eastern Europe (It is east. It is Europe. Lol. Switzerland, neutral w/ her native mounds, ingenius indiginous digs, rather nobel, Angus and Alfred?) Solemnly, foolishly I have been the fool knowing I have been ... the fool ... that much wiser. Reading betwixt the lines, writing betw/ the lines. Hey, this guitar-von neumann-game is no prisoner's dilemma. It fits pretty well w/ ... . Whoa, run, dismissed w/ witchcrafthlike class, new mind renewed, story telling bookshelf-importance, man and open-up-and-live woman new world no world improvisations, does sound for you, got it now? Giving it away now, a way now to go the giving way, who knows? Dizzie beatnik word plays homologies to solo character on the sabbath, Toledo's Mrs. Johnson's Art Tatum technique, lines, staves, thumbs one direction, Euro-American film portfoluio 'nuff lessons, not enough, formal schooling on the Turks' Curds' Algerian Althusser/Camus, democatic socialst leader of France, Etranger, a read-in-deed, haar, measures the lawyer road scale road-eyes, close to the edge, new lines for the writer. The egoless writer,no man sees his face and lives. He who wrote and memorized, one direction and the other simultanoeuos combustion, composition. Art Tatum technique. Sweet unconditional music, The music, the culture, like any other only more so, thinning down, the evening is, klezmer on the YouTube. There is a 2500 year old curse. The witch sneaks in, ... in two thousand tennies, klezmer dances growing distribution, a spin, off go the tenants to the south of France. Tore my heart, the cries w/ no words. The village I come to, sans mind fog, w/ London Fog in NYC mindset. Bloom where you are planted. Stimulus/response. The "receptive" villagers become restless. I am here to write, to rectify the wrongs in the world, "who I am." Got that adroitly right, so the balance of the sinister. Rightly so covered, Dearest dog, David Resh, shouts out barks. Sometime the music, the measure, the meter, knows being and nothingness, to remember to remember, to remember to forget, ... to forget to forget, ... to he who reads the contrapositive first .... , he was does not, he/she who is free from given two choices, ... taking the third, ... .(maybe continued later.). Gaston the Gimmle gives a study house material. It is felt, warm-heartedly. Placidly, shalom, peaceful, full of mir. Remember to return, memories. Charity rescueth even death. (R.H. Blythe said hi, hello, yes and yes to his wife? "Shitsticks. Write." Burroughs sold apples and pomegranates to Tarzania? No one died over it.)