Henry on top of his typewriter, caressing it some, at it again, not wanting to write, pushing himself to do it. In a vacuum writing story after story with no feedback. Having a good wank and talking to himself that’s all it was, it was pathetic, why bother?
Maybe if Henry straightened up some, it would be easier to write.
Lately obsessed with Bridget Bardot, she was pure light for Henry, legs spread, lovely bush airing out, eternally innocent, the French angel flying high over Paris in the sky spreading, wings wide open too.
Henry particularly loved her first film, “Manina, the Girl in the Bikini.” Young Calve the hero and adventurer kissing Bardot by the sea. Henry imaging it was him who was kissing her, her young mouth, what it tasted like, feeling the warm fluids inside the mouth, it was an easy kiss for Henry.
In Wah Wah Coffee Shop, Roy Buchanan on You Tube, Roy a strange bird playing the guitar in strange ways unheard of by man. His work diverse, songs tailored to fit new sounds discovered and invented on his guitar.
Life offering nothing new for Henry, it was as though he was locked into it, a lousy, stinking pattern, not for him at all, oh well and anyways, it was overwhelming.
The French painter Modigliani, absolutely nothing to live for, painting in a vacuum, great stuff … nobody cared. In the end, drunk and stoned on the street selling sketches nobody wanted for five francs, later found dead on the street.
Modigliani’s life proved that people in the mainstream are--- stiff in a vacuum occasionally peering out at the world---
Henry speaking to you from his heart he had nothing to hide, Brigitte Bardot where are you?