Whether it’s a letter, song lyrics, part of a novel, or instructions on how to fix a kitchen sink, it’s writing. You keep your craft honed, you acquire the discipline to finish things. You turn into a self-taskmaster.
Where it all ends I can’t fathom, my friends. If I knew, I might toss out my anchor.
Indecision may or may not be my problem.
I just want to live happily ever after, every now and then.
Give me oysters and beer, for dinner every day of the year, and I’ll be fine...
I ain’t no drinking man, but temptation got the best of me.
The weather is here Wish you were beautiful.
Any attempts at autobiography before the age of eighty seem pretty self-involved to me. There are a lot of smart middle aged people but not many wise ones.
Any manual labor I’ve done was purely by mistake.
I have never cared about setting world records, or filling my boat with fish, or, for that matter, even catching fish. I go for the experience of spending six hours in the arms of the ocean, never thinking of a single thing except chasing fish.
One of the inescapable encumbrances of leading an interesting life is that there have to be moments when you almost lose it.
Elvis was the only man from Northeast Mississippi who could shake his hips and still be loved by rednecks, cops, and hippies.
I still consider it a summer job, though. So, I try to maintain that summer job as long as I can. But it’s exciting to be able to have the opportunity to do things I always dreamed of as a kid.
I hate to mention age, but I come from an era when we weren’t consumed by technology and television. My mother insisted that her children read. To describe my scarce leisure time in today’s terms, I always default to reading.
Under the heavens and under the sea there’s a friend I don’t know, who holds the right key.
I’m going back to my parrot head friends.
It’s a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.
Lights are glowing in the palm trees...
I got a PBS mind in an MTV world.
I still believe in rock and roll, it pays my bills.