The Third Mind.

Via spectral connections through the miracle of modern technology, the finger has been put on me from a reader of this tripe. Asked if I'd like a meet to discuss literature and dead writers. Sure, wouldn't you? Wary of his kind - I mean face it, this blog seems to attract the dredge of this planet - and I don't blame it, ain't entirely Disney material that I transcribe - right?

Cold winds howl over foaming silver waves crashing - I stand smoking in front of that mad picturesque cafe waiting for this person - smoking smoking smoking - thinking that he has to be one of three things: 1) He's legit and a wee bit mad, 2) Just another predator waiting in lurch to rob me of my virtue, or 3) Some phantom villain from my forgotten past who's got nothing better to do than ruin my day.

Step inside to hide from those winds blowing offa the sea, I am approached by a disheveled hippie surfer like beach type long hair who introduced himself as the 'writer' of said email. Said his name was Robert Smallwood. Expected the first word uttered would be "Dude..."

To my surprise luckily he was #1, the bloke was quit literary, dears - well read, well traveled and attained quite the intelligence in such matters. We sat at a table in the cafe gulping coffees and chatting of each others works, the beats, and the potential downward spiral of literature today - cause ya dumb folks won't pick up a fucking book now and then and read.

He went into a supersonic spiel concerning a great travel from Tijuana to Europe - to contact and co-op with unheard of but brilliant artists hidden in far flung lands, wants to travel like the ghost of Ken Kassey through our Land of the Free promoting himself and others like - to surf that cresting wave of literary starvation that has awashed over our fair land. Asked if I was interested to go along for the ride. Ha! You old time readers know I never say no to a wacky adventure...

Invited to the humble hovel of a friend of his - a monstrous kind mad Croatian named Roman. We sat in his well lived flat by the sea for hours talking in crazy tones as the waves crashed outside and the wind howled - Robert rambling like a speed freak, Roman in his thick Slavic accent gesticulating his words with huge meaty paws, myself smoking and commenting at all this hyperphrenic mad dialogue consisting of self promotion, a European trip to meet fellow writers, and some archaic idea of documenting it all on YouTube for posterity.

Night progressed into early morning and we said our good nights. Walking home, I thought of the outcome if it outcome - I was invited to join this supposed New Wave of International Writers, take off to Europe all the while pushing my book, meeting fellow artists from San Diego to the Carpathian Mountains...

At the moment I smiled under that baleful moon - the dreamers continue to dream...