So, is it hotter in Houston,
or in the summertime?

Yo, I write books, plays, ballets, essays, IMPROVs, and poems. I’m a high functioning, brain injured son of a fingerpickin’fool. And I’m looking for shit to get into all the time. If I can see it then I can say it, and I’m blessed with an imagination. I can write in a hurricane. But, sometimes I wanna part my hair on the other side. So I’m at it to find the viewpoint, the way of putting it down that will best tell how I see it. 

Flat out carte blanche for a writer. The sky is the limit. You can talk about anything you can imagine, otherwise it depends on what you can pull off with a six string around your neck. If it’s a song, when the words and the music say the same thing you’re done. If it’s an essay, or an IMPROV the edits can go on for a lifetime. Sometimes when you wake up to one of your older pieces, you’re a better writer, sometimes you don’t have the foggiest what you might have been talking about. When I write them only God and Vince Bell know what I mean. Sometimes when I revisit them only God knows.

I read some. But the music in my ear is intoxicating. Pairing verse with music is powerfully brief. Its impression has the impact of a hammer. Then, it’s over in a heartbeat. And if you have no fear you can take a chord exercise from a rehearsal and turn it into the hook of a great recording.

Anyway, back to the pros. When I write ’em, I tell the tales coming at them from different angles. Therefore, how I write a theme is as challenging as the theme itself. That way the telling is novel, fresh, alive. And a lot of the time experimental. But, not often the same way twice. Perspective is everything.

Home is where the 
word processor is.

So it takes more than just putting some words down on a page. Then you have to get off your ass and show it to the bad old world. Maybe more than once in more than one decade. It takes this effort to muscle your way into the main of words and music, and show yourself you have arrived. It’s a waste of your good time to worry about what others may think of your hard work, they’re working hard themselves. And maybe they’re just not as lucky as you.

People are not so complicated. If they’re comfortable with the presentation, they’ll like what they hear. But on the other hand, the world is self conscious, the world is insecure. The world is downright mean. So the world won’t give you credit, or let on honestly about anything, much less your latest. And the world will condemn you for your opinion. So don’t belittle your efforts, some hard working people are paid to do that, too. Maybe you’ll just have to keep writing with your head down, oh yeah.

Close friends live 600 miles away. No off daze, no breaks, no time for anything else. I don’t leave the house without a notepad of some kind. Imagery always strikes when you’re busily involved like a fire. But you’re a juggler. The word is a smiling genie like a mirage winging through your head. I’m never coming down out of that tree.

The queen sits where she will, the king sits where he may. And the king has no clothes if he doesn’t write it down.  No clocks, no time limit, no way outta here, no better place to be. No interest in anything other than catching the wind by the tail. I type with my thumbs, I make a lot of mistakes, but I make a zillion corrections. I play guitar to a courtyard of mountain birds, I live by my wits. I have an authorship everyday. I have the music. I perform the prose like poetry I wrote yesterday. And I write. 

After putting one word after another for damn well fifty years, the best word of them all is the next one. Putting talk, and images together is like riding on a carousel. The whirling momentum is the magic. Somewhere in this midway without end I have written some of that down. Bravo. When I was young I lived to grow up, and I wrote in my spare time.  Now I’m looking for shit to get into all the time. Can’t help but notice, you don’t smile because you’re happy, you’re happy because you smile.

You play like you practice.
It’s not how long, it’s how often.
One song teaches another.
So, it’s not when you get it…
It’s that you get it. Get it?


3 is lucky, 3 is like triangles, 3 is points for shots you sink in basketball.  3 is suspicious. 3 is mis-understood. 3 is odd. 3 of anything just never did fit. 3 of anything is several in synonym speak. 3 is fashionable, 3 is sexy, 3 is bargain basement incentive. 

3 is better than two by one. One, and one, and one is 3. 3 is counted. 3 is bought. 3 is thrown like newspapers. Good toss. 3 will leave you hauling an extra if you only need two, but 3 just won’t get it if you need four. 3 for the price of one. 

3 is the number of pumpkins on a fence. 3 is the bevy of biscuits on your plate. 3 is more enchiladas than you can eat, or not. 3 is tacos from the drive-in restaurant. 3 is donuts for you, and the boys. 3 is scoops of ice cream in a bowl. 3 is the number of meatballs in a spaghetti. 3 is the number of Matzos in a soup. 

The 3 of a writer is, you tell ’em, you tell ’em, and you tell ’em again. 3 is not equal, 3 is not bilateral, 3 is the number of gloved fingers on a cartoon character mouse. 3 is not opposable like thumbs. 3 is a preponderance of ones. 3 is a collection of t-shirts, or underwear, or socks. You won’t often find 3 in ski poles, or contact lenses, or tires for the wheels of yer car. You won’t find 3 of much of anything on the wings of a jet airplane. You won’t find 3 on the tracks of a coal train. You won’t find 3 on the turn signals of yer car. 

3 is the number of eyes on a spider.  3 makes a phalanx of birds in the sky. 3 is an extra. 3 is a bonus. 3 isn’t everything, but it’s more than two. 3s isn’t better, it’s just greater than two. 3 is the number of legs on an alien. 3 is the number of eyeballs on a monster from outta town. 3 is the number of teeth in a boxer’s mouth. 3 is the number of strikes, and yer…out!