Richard Brautigan would write different short stories, each one would be like a leaf from the most interesting tree you ever did see.

Richard Brautigan would write different short stories, each one would be like a leaf from the most interesting tree you ever did see. He wrote novels that were collections of these leaves, a whole heap and a basket of them with little bits of twigs and scruff and bark bits from his mind. A reader could spill out the bushel of them and rake the stories into whatever piles they liked, all on the living room floor or wherever they were and enjoy the way the writing scrunched. Brautigan would have been happy to know some bugs or worms got in there, the flecks and damp on these leaves endless illuminated space of imagination, leaves staining the vaults of longing, and leaves curling in caves of interconnected green stained-glass telephone booths.


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September 18
At a nice place to pause in your mind