This guy. Grandpa and the adding machine. He acts like he does not come from a family forever tied to numbers, reciepts and nice shiny things. He smells at times like a brush fire in a garbage heap next to a Gin factory. His eyebrows radiate a strange kind of malignant evil when he tries to lecture. The little handbags under his eyes remind me when I tune out like this of the bags found at thrift stores with the smell of old things and failure along with the ghost of moth balls. He tries to rumple and stain just so but his posture radiates long rides in a car with a driver never spoken to.
He is winging it again. He may as well bring lecture notes in drawers from a bedroom or just tell us all teaching writing is an impotent fruitless pathetic wheels spinning in mud for infinity waste of time on a base even molecular level. He has something in his teeth. His eyes have that dead murder look again, oop, now like a ghost it is gone again. I could be eating lunch. I could be flossing.
But here we are.
Elliot Slarp’s note found on the floor at Naropa Institute one summer before he dropped out to “find himself”
Professor: William Burroughs