A few years ago, an abrupt educational disjunction (read: I tried to switch programs and my university told me to get lost) resulted in several years of surrealism. Events include:
– Pedaling through New York on a tiny collapsible bicycle to buy allen wrenches from an all-night third-story hardware store
– Accepting an anonymous internet solicitation to pick up a woman at the Las Vegas airport and deposit her in the desert near the California border. (She had to meet a horse.)
– Photographing a pirate wedding in a geodesic dome erected by the groom in the center of a giant psychedelic party in the Mojave.
I credit your literature for preparing me for the realities of adulthood.
My position, which I state frequently, is that authors create works according to the Rules of Art, (whatever those may be), and readers construct meanings of their very own, in their very own brains, often having nothing to do with what the author thought it meant, if anything. Don't blame me for the way your life turned out--I am just a simple teller of tales.
