I feel the more I write about him, the more I"m getting to the heart of this conman.
'I get it, I get it strong. Poetry is the stuff of Marlboro men.'
Yeah, whatever.
I kind of get it now.
I had to pay Gartland to produce his recordings.
He not only ate into my precious writing time he made sure I wouldn't write my book on dieting.
He had a backlog of poems to record.
The Germans from Meta House in Cambodia weren't apparently working with him.
Apparently, the collaboration was drying up.
And out of desperation, Gartland chose me.
Even after I paid him the $500, most of the emails were about tracks I was working on.
Hay, what about the editing?
That was just a minor disturbance, or a bit of fuel to ensure the Gartland legacy lived on in Cyberspace after he was long gone.
He didn't feel the need to talk to me about editing.
I was very excited about it after I sent him the money via Western Union.
We really need to discuss how we are going to work together on this book.
No, we don't need to discuss anything that I don't want to discuss.
He started using excuses, 'I need more sleep.' Or, 'the wifey is around.'
Man, Gartland was the biggest liar under the sun.
When Gartland fobs you off, it's major.
He wasn't cut out for poetry.
His skill set was more for a cult.
A cult that Gartland ran like a totalitarian authority that he most despised.
Ground Zero, Gartland style, 'then it must be okay.'
Delusion breeds delusion, again.
