I dreamed Stephen King sat on a park bench typing stories while I mopped up the sewage around his feet with slices of day-old sandwich bread. “I think Kenneth Rexroth really nailed those Greek translations,” he said. “Youd do worse than to start there.” Then something strange happened. Just as I began to wonder if I was being wasteful, using food to sop up park filth, Stephen King said, “Might as well.” He said, “No one’s gonna eat that bread. You might as well use it for something.” It was like he was sitting on a park bench in my mind, typing, and he could hear and see what I was thinking. He sure was chatty in there. I didn’t mind. I was grateful for the advice. He was so serene in the sunlight, so peaceful. Even when a Romanian musician rode her hurdy-gurdy bicycle by us, Stephen King remained unfazed. He cocked back his head and let the sunlight blind his face as the lenses of his glasses fogged over.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 14:16:45 +0000
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