I tried, emptied a bottle of rum, perused bridges like a voyeur, spent the day with drifters and woke up to the best friend laden down with the entire works of Charles Brukowski. I don’t know what could have been a more depressing gift. Lying in bed now reading “He asked, “What makes a man a writer?” “Well,” I said, “it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.†over and over again until it’s etched on my brain, like a badly needed lesson. I’ve decided to leave, my body can only take so much. I have no money but that’s what hitchhiking is for. It’s almost ironic that when I most seek death, all I find are guardian angels at every turn. A cruel joke perhaps? Or just cowardice on my part. So I’ve packed my bag, leaving everything else behind. Taking some of my Brukowski’s with me. I think I’m going crazier by the moment.
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Revel in your actions, until they lose their taste, maybe your actions if new and novel are what you you need ? Unless of course this hitch hiking is a very old pattern your repeating, through your psyche desiring in and addictive sense, disaster and self destruction ? But if this novel behaviour , maybe there is something to be learnt from it ?
Bukowski was not a prolific writer until later in life. He went through one decade where he wrote nothing. At the age of 49 his publisher offered him a meager salary if he quit his job at the post office to write full time. Bukowski said “I can either starve as a writer or go crazy working for the Post Office. I choose to starve”. This was circa 1970, I don’t think “going postal” was a term that had been coined yet.
He spent most of his life in obscurity, although he did write the autobiographical screenplay for “Barfly”. If you like his writing you might want to check out the movie.