I post this photo hoping it will take me somewhere for I have nothing in mind to write this morning, not even a morsel. I don't want to write about me, but. . . with nothing else. . . . You see, I made a mistake last night and drank, but feeling wired at bedtime. . . . It doesn't matter. It cannot be of any interest to you.
Though people DID read Bukowski for just that very reason. Old Buk had only one topic--his damaged psyche--and he milked it dry. There's Buk drinking. There's Buk sleeping in to classic music rather than going to work. There he is at the racetrack. There his is fighting with another woman. Buk tells us of his sadistic father and his unhappy childhood. He is a loner who eschews friendships. He watches the world from his cheap apartment window. He is fat. He is ugly.
"Oh my God! Did you see that? Buk just puked onstage during his poetry reading!"
Go, Buk, go!
Oh, yea. . . I mean Chinaski. Buk used a fictional character. Not to be confused.
He was a terrible writer when he strayed into other arenas. He couldn't make up stories for shit. He was a correspondent reporting on one item.
So. . . .
It is September now. Tomorrow is Labor Day and the unofficial start of autumn, though actual start of autumn is not until September 22. As I've reported, here in the sunny south we cast a weather eye to the east watching for brewing storms. We are in the heart of hurricane season.
But yesterday was beautiful. I know that only through reports, though, for I did not leave the house until five-thirty when I went to see my mother. I didn't stay so long, however, and came back home to make a quick dinner and hunker down for the evening. I do this, I am beginning to realize, most often on Saturdays when people are out and about. Maybe I've become phobic about "the public." Or maybe it is much worse. But I sat at my computer day and night and worked on old photographs. Not wasted time, I think, for I have developed some new processing skills that make me happy. First you capture an image, then, later, you make it sing. Yesterday, I developed a choir. No, it was not wasted time but time well spent.
Still, I missed a most lovely day.
The days grow shorter now and the light grows more lovely. Beautiful light becomes a rarer commodity, as, I guess, it should.
But I am still buzzing with the effects of the Nembutal I took last night. I'm kidding. Not even my druggiest of friends can get Nembutal. Believe me, I have asked. If you can get it for me, however. . . the line is always open.
I love to eat pastries in the morning with my coffee, but they make me fat, so I haven't any here today. It is making me miserable. A big, sticky cinnamon bun or a pumpkin fritter would bring me to life. I know they are not healthy. I know I should eat steel cut oats instead. But life is tedious enough on its own, and I want to be a Parisian. They love their pastries. Even a beautiful croissant would make my day.
That's all I have. That's what I got, as they say in my old neck o' the woods. I should go about with a camera today. . . but I doubt it. I think I've become paranoid and photophobic. But what is life without a record? Is a life without art worth living?
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