Answering the question of faith, I usually answer thus: I have not been blessed with a gift of it. Sometimes I also say it thus: I have not been blessed with the gift of faith. With that in mind, let’s move beyond the spinning that takes place in my head while its trying to figure out the magic between definate and indefinate articles. Have I mentioned how much I love the Interwebnets? I love the Interwebnets so much that I would kill for it…
Wait. Scratch that. Again. I love the Interwebnets so much I would die for it. Ok. Enough of my worst-theatrics. But. Speaking of theatrics. My all-time favorite playwright is Tennessee Williams. I know. I know. He doesn’t appear all that much in worstwriter (nor does he appear much in wurstwriter or tommistoughdotcom). I think that has something to do with the fact that Williams occupies a nice portion of the analog part of my literal world. That is. I have many physical books written by him and about him on that side of my office that doesn’t get much attention lately. In fact, while reading this most recent article (below) I took a break to make a morning English Breakfast tea (is that redundant?) and thoughts/images of my analog book colletion came to mind. When was the last time I read something by Tennessee Williams? Obviously he’s on my mind because I’m eagarly waiting for the publishers/author of the book Mad Pilgrammages of the Flesh by John Lahr to demand a fair price. Which means I probably won’t ever read that book because, not unlike the digital music industry, the ebook industry has long since been hijacked by the old economy where outdated, greedy business models continue to ruin the fun in the name of financing another yacht for someone. Oh well. And I’m off subject. Or am I? Nomatter. Came across a great longread article/excerpt from James Grissom’s book (which, btw, is also overpriced for an ebook) “Follies of the God”. And what a great read (the article) is. About two-thirds into this excerpt Tennessee Williams says:
Rooms in which I wrote and dreamed and starved and fucked and cried and read and prayed, and perhaps all that action and all that steam creates both this fog and this woman.
And then Williams tells us, as the interviewer is given the task of asking old theatre cohorts if he ever mattered, how there might be a god and how she might be a woman. Or something like that.
And so, baby, that is proof enough for me that there are higher powers and better stations awaiting us—awaiting you—and a woman will lead us to them.
Guess what books going on Tommi’s reading list along with the other book that I don’t want to afford. (Come on ebook industry. Come back down to earth.) Yeah. James Grissom, Follies of God: Tennessee Williams and the Women of the Fog.
Tennessee Williams On His Women, His Writer’s Block, And Wether It All Mattered | Longreads
Rant on. -tommi
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