I am a great writer. Of course, I haven't been writing much lately. I'm on a literary sabbatical. Duration. For the last eleven years, let's say, I didn't write anything. I need to pick up my writing self and move on. Must. I need it. And the world too. It needs my writing talent. He needs this multi-layered reality of fantasy – and sometimes realism – that I reveal to him. The artistic world needs my masterful writing technique. Truth! I crush bones when I'm inspired! I'll say it again. I'm kind of late writing, but when I do I'm cracking up! Two projects in eleven years you say. One you will surely have heard of. Now that I think about it, the other thing. Actually you have heard all my works. For sure! I bet.
Now, about the little bet we were talking about. You've definitely missed it. Oh, if only I had you in front of me. You would say to me: "but how are you so sure that we have read both of your works?" I would correct you, and say: “My dear, or my dear, as you prefer, because good accounts make good friends, I did not say you had read my works. I only said you have heard them. And I'm sure of it. I bet!" And you, as if I could see you, would say: "Ah, but you are sure... how are you so sure?"
Me then, I would rub my mustache with satisfaction, or whatever I had handy anyway, to show pleasure. "Mmm..." I would purr.. Ah, how rare and how unique those moments, the holy ones, that come once, twice, even three times a year. Those moments when you feel like the Lord of the World, and the Keyholder of Mysteries. I am referring, dear reader, to those moments when you already know the truth, and the world around you ignores it. Those moments when you have all the opportunity to show your bright face and look gallant and generous and wise and whatever else you want. Or maybe you just want to win a bet. Like me now! But I'm telling you. This is an already won bet. You have lost. Because you've heard all my plays. 100%! I guarantee it. Oh, if only I had you in front of me! I would wear you normally. A bet won by each of you individually. You would be at my mercy. Anyway. Are you ready; I will reveal to you my writing tools. So listen:
Ergara Proti:
Soon we will also serve you from cashier 2.
Task Two:
The old man.. I collect all the old irons.. I clean yards, I clean basements, I collect irons, aluminum, old washing machines, the old man came to your neighborhood...
Work Tuesday:
For Thebes – Inoe disembarking from the right side, in the direction of the train…
Ergara Fourth (and penultimate):
Live live live! You will eat a hundred!
I told you that you have heard all my works. I have written these masterpieces! I get, you say, royalties from all the wandering old men in the country. From all supermarkets. From all trains, to and from Athens. And of course, of all school sports championships. Every time you're waiting at a supermarket checkout, remember this, dear reader. A small, minimal amount from your pocket goes into mine. Now of course I'm in court. I have almost 19 years – yes, you read that right, nineteen years – in the courts. I claim rights to my magnus opus. My greatest work of writing. My masterpiece. You've heard that too. For sure. Don't bet again. You will miss it again. My greatest work of writing, my greatest contribution to the world of letters and arts – they say – is this series of words, for which, to tell you the truth, I'm not even trying to win the rights to it. Get it, dear reader. It's not about money for me. It never was. It's just a matter of glory! And I say this here, from my little boat, which is snugly moored in the humble "King Charles" marina of Monaco. It's not about the money, but I will win the lawsuit. And all rights from this expression will be mine:
"Please, the owner of the car numbered ______ to move it because it is obstructedishe lives".
Ah, other times… I was inspired then. In how many, minimal, words did I condense all the meaning and wisdom of life...
I am a great writer. I told you from the beginning.
Didn't I get it?
*Cover photo: Anne Sexton, (b Anne Gray Harvey , November 9, 1928 – October 4, 1974), American poet known for her highly personal, confessional verse. She won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1967 for her book Live or Die. Her poetry describes her long battle with bipolar disorder, suicidal tendencies and intimate details from her private life.