at the ranch, young admirers who asked him what he thought of the current president. He didn’t know who was in the job, didn’t follow the news from decade to decade. So the tale goes, something I read in one of the US magazines. I’ve been wondering about my own attempt at disengagement from the instant snap and clamour of the news, if not as thorough. I was too close to it last year, squandered too many hours. Maybe Burroughs was only interested in the old stories, the ancient dust. He’s on my mind this cold morning, still in print but I suspect membership of the beat myth – the half-forgotten daydreams of nations – the sordid tales recounted in the bios and the cut ups are more his legacy than the books. I’ve been cutting up the plans I’m making, the fledgling strategy, wondering if there’s a clearer route to decode from my tangled draftings. Hoping for a signal to come bouncing back out of the inky neuron weave, a clue to something unimagined.
