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Author: Bud Smith

Where You’re From

Last night we walked up to the bodega on 181st street and got some Cafe Bustelo cheap expresso ground tin can coffee, some bacon, a package of multi-grain English muffins (all they had to choose from)(stacks of multigrain but no reg., baby), a random mixed six pack of beer because people just buy beer all mismatched at that place, so like sure it started out as Sam Adams, but wound up with no Sam Adams in it, couple Sierra Nevadas, an oddball beligium beer not made by a monk, a pilsner from Mars.  All through the bodega, we were...

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Sunrise

For a while there I was driving like a serial killer. No music on. Car stereo off. Hands on the steering wheel and just thinking about whatever book I was writing as I approached my construction site. My commute isn’t that long, and it felt good to have that half hour of silence. I usually planned out what I was going to write on my cellphone during my coffee break and my lunch break.  The work day goes by in a blink. And all day every day there is the noise of steam and machines and people talking and joking....

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Time Isn’t After Us

        Monday morning I woke up at 2am. Hungover from the Super Bowl (that we didn’t even watch). I was just laying there in the bed and wondered why I’d woken up.  Then I heard it, a short scream coming from above. I sat up in the bed and looked at the darkened ceiling.  I don’t have any weapons in my apartment. The sound came again. I realized it wasn’t a short scream, it was my upstairs neighbor sneezing.  I realized this as he blew his nose. A big honk. I don’t have any weapons in...

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Welding & Writing

You can never get good enough at welding. There’s always something you can’t weld, just beyond your ability, patience, or faith in yourself.  Big shit. I didn’t take metal shop in high school, but that’s where most people have their first try at welding. You stand there in a classroom with your aquamarine welding coat and you big oven mitt gloves, you’ve got your welding hood down and a stinger with an electrode in your hand and you have no idea what the hell to do.  You’re reaching out in the literal darkness trying to connect with a hunk...

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Drug Test

Ernest Hemingway, says “Write drunk, edit sober.” But he’s just another dead old asshole. Plus he had to rewrite the last page of A Farewell To Arms 47 times. I think he should have just written it sober. Then he would have just had to rewrite it 20 times. I was on acid, of course. One of the only times I did drugs at work. I had to dig a hole in someone’s front yard. A pond. Twenty five feet long by eight feet wide, four feet deep. We’d eaten some acid the previous night and as is known to happen, we just...

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Work Safe Or Die Trying

I’ve never been to college. I don’t have any education past high school, but I write. I’m that weirdo that thinks that anybody can make art and everybody should make art. It doesn’t matter who you are, your life can be improved by making some kind of art. I’ve got no formal training, and I’m pretty much the only guy I know working construction who reads books at all, but—I write.

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