Sometimes, I think it would be easier to be a shoe-shine man and shine shoes in Grand Central Terminal or Penn Station or some street corner than to be a writer who dreams vividly and pens possible and impossible dreams into schemes on paper.
But how happy would I be shining shoes that I would shine wonderfully into art when I still remember as I were as a boy who always wanted what was big and better and never small, what they said was impossible had to be possible because I believed it so.....
Random thoughts after 5 glasses of Naked Grape wine #27 in a small dull Southern City where the only coolness is in an air conditioned studio on East Pine Street while outside in the night stale and sticky heat has stopped and stayed like a thick brick wall no one can climb...save the queer who believe and know they can.
As winds sounded for a time like freight trains through Florence some 106 miles northwest of Charleston's Folly Beach, a parking lot in Florence on Irby Street was like crossing a stormy sea where I ran to buy batteries at Dollar Tree for a remote control.
Hurricane Irma unlike William Tecumseh Sherman who by-passed Charleston, which he harbored a special hatred after a Charleston belle jilted him when he served as an artillery lieutenant at Fort Moultrie and later blamed Charleston for starting the War Between the States, took no mercy pounding Charleston's Lowcountry coast and putting Charleston again-that great Southern symbol of rebellion and discontent- under water.
At its height according to Charleston's Post & Courier daily newspaper, Irma generated a nearly 10-foot tide. That was 4 feet more than normal and among the worst tidal surges in 80 years in Charleston after Hugo damaged Charleston in 1989 and a cyclone laid the city to ruin and waste in 1940.