Yesterday at 6:29 p.m. I turned forty-four years old. I revised a collage and a painting, made and ate a Chef Boyardee cheese pizza and enjoyed coconut cake and green tea while watching a few episodes from season one of "Girls," my new favorite show. Here is an excerpt from the book I am currently devouring, Willard And His Bowling Trophies by Richard Brautigan:
Willard was made by an artist who lived in some isolated mountains in a part of California that was hard to find. The artist was in his late thirties and had had a very fucked-up life with many bad love affairs and much torment but he had somehow kept it together and was now supporting himself from his sculpture and he had a woman who took care of his basic physical and spiritual wants without fooling with his head too much.
Willard was made by an artist who lived in some isolated mountains in a part of California that was hard to find. The artist was in his late thirties and had had a very fucked-up life with many bad love affairs and much torment but he had somehow kept it together and was now supporting himself from his sculpture and he had a woman who took care of his basic physical and spiritual wants without fooling with his head too much.
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