Читать книгу Festival Man - Geoff Berner - Страница 9

DAMN, I WAS SCRIBBLING AWAY HERE, and I was having trouble seeing what I was writing. I started to worry if maybe I was going blind, but then I looked up round me in this dilapidated kitchen and realized that the sun was going down. My ass and back hurt from being bent over scrawling, and this poor old kitchen table is full of defaced yellow legal paper. Also, I was dimly aware of myself picking with my fingernails at the flaking baby-blue paint on the table top, but I now see that someone seems to have stripped the entire table to bare pine, and there’s paint flakes everywhere. Don’t see anybody else here so I guess that was me. I remember promising to only write a dozen pages or so, just the bare bones of the story of what happened at the Calgary Folk Festival, and here I am at twenty or more and I haven’t even got us to the festival. Sorry about that, reader, but what can you do? There’s stuff people need to know, in order to understand what an extraordinary figure I am, and what it is I do for people. Sometimes a digression or two is necessary, and I’m not sorry. Genius works in mysterious ways. If I had more time, I’d try to winnow the thing down, but I think it’s a better idea to just take a short break, get some candles lit, eat a tomato, do some more speed, take a shot of whiskey, and get back down to business. If a job’s worth doing, I always say, it’s worth doing half-assed, so long as it gets done.