Let’s put it this way, if I take this writing stuff full time, I may not get hungry but I’ll have to live like Bukowski. I reckon he lived a life that nourished his soul and nurtured his talent. At least the part after he quit his postal job trying to be a bread winner. Bukowski is my favorite poet since after I bought Pearl Jam 5th album “Yield” and Ed scribbled something about Buk in the liner notes. I stumbled upon his book inside Popular bookstore, a subversive bookstore
here in Tomas Morato and whose success is a blue print for all those pseudo activist who thought they were hardliners until they turned into entrepreneurs. I see nothing wrong with that, I don’t sleep with all that money, contradiction and need to be self-assured that they are not the capitalist monsters they fought in their youth. Read my last statement again if you think I was bitter or hating.
Back to Buk… When I let my mind explore freely I will discuss the fantasy life my alter ego is living. The lifestyle hanging on every puff of a cigarette, with a lady laying on the bed and overwhelmed with loneliness more after sex. It must be fun to be constantly on the hunt, immersed in the moment that is not dictated by needs that can only be assuaged by being responsible.
That is scary and yet very tempting. I really thought my genes and my predestined choices would lead me to it. “But I’ve tasted it, a life wasted, I’m never going back again” (again a PJ song).
That is why my life lead me to work for a government operated casino. It’s pretty much like Bukowski but with an intriguing hint of danger, also a jab at my father who gambled small time. Unlike him, I never lose. I also can call it a job. I have two things he wanted to justify to my mom.
This blog has been read or seen in 22 countries since it’s conception when Tita Vicky died last May. I qualify that with the word ‘seen’ because I’m not sure if people actually read it. I’m grateful at the initial burst of turnout whenever I release a new blog thru facebook. The nice feedback that I get from relatives and friends make me feel glad that I am surrounded by people who read. But being read in 22 countries make me feel like “Wow, my writing reach places where I’m not even admitted or given a visa!” Also I’ve been an underpaid ghostwriter for the last 18 years.
Then the high goes plummeting because I feel that the trade off is not fair. The high goes plummeting because I feel it’s the trade off. The high goes plummeting because I feel.
Don’t we all have that? That crowding sense of loneliness? After every exchange that doesn’t seem to sustain after it takes off? Wrap all of these in an extra layer of positivity.
This is my mind when it is let loose. I feel I can write about anything as Buk described writers who burst with ideas, like Robin talking on top of his head. And that makes Robin’s death more perplexing. He’s at an age where he took it far enough to see a wider perspective. A hope that comes with better understanding thru the aging process. To think that he’s been trying to beat his demons since 1984 when he joked about trying to get sober with his son Zach. His bouts with alcoholism is a deep well of punchlines.
We can talk about all the points all day. I can let my mind roam and roll off. But what needs to be addressed is why there is a stop sign in the cranial superhighway and why we go to a sudden halt. Thank you for your time.
danDAman 