Fuck Hemingway.

 

 

It is almost impossible to work at home with a new carpet going in.

I have my doubts about the value of posting inconsequential crap like this...except for the fact that it reminds me what Bukowski said about writing.

You should be able to write in a war zone.

Which is what he and I- at one time or another- both felt we were already doing.

Abused children cogent enough to write about it talk about 'war'.

'The war in my head'.

'My childhood was like a war zone'.

I have said it.

Another part of me says 'fuck that'.

That's the duality, right there.

Understanding 'war', and the mythologising of war.

We have all done it, at one time or another.

(well, most men have...)

My Father believed it to such an incredible degree...he actually TOLD people he had been to Vietnam. When of course he had not.

Most people who talk about a 'war zone' have NO idea about war.

People who have actually BEEN to a war- don't even want to talk about it.

And anyone who would imagine themselves in a war they had never experienced...

Has a screw loose.

There is NOTHING beautiful about war.

Fuck Hemingway.

Don't give it any more energy than it already has.

Despite everything society tells you...

War is never a good thing.

Never.

Not even in your own mind.



     

Know How...

Blessed are the forgiving, for they shall inherit...

actually, I don't think these kind of people give a damn about their inheritance. That's how they can be so forgiving.

They know how to let go of things...  

Drama, right?? (for Bukowski)

 

Some people just become addicted to the struggle. 

I wouldn't know what to do with a happy ending even if I had one. 

Drama, right? 

Who watches a film without drama?  (unless you are a Tarkovsky fan.) 

Remember how Bukowski battled right to the end- even when there was no one left to do battle with but himself? 

'War All The Time', he wrote? 

Peace- like war- is a choice.  

I worry that I choose that which brings out the best writing in me.

For it's own sake.

Which makes me no better than the war mongers, really.

Like those people who say you have to go mad to write a decent book.

I like the idea that peace (like LOVE) is an elusive dream...

a will-o-the-wisp...

always just out of my reach.

Something to strive for.

& I am Puck. 

Or 'Fuck'.

Because I'm telling you- when I actually GET A TASTE of it...

I always fuck it up.

I remember how when I was a child- marriage between my parents was synonymous with conflict.

Throughout the hammering and screaming from the room next door...somehow it was woven into my consciousness that you cannot have love without war.

I'm still to this day not certain how you can separate them.

Remember how Bukowski came from a traumatic upbringing?

I'm not as tough as Bukowski- I could never hit a woman- but I can see where he comes from.

Bukoswki did finally find peace.

Linda Lee said she saw it in his face when he died.

We're all 'living on luck'. 

& the luckiest find that peace a little before their final breath.

The Devil Wants You For a Sex Toy...

I wish I were more like Lemmy, but in reality- I'm mostly like Pooh Bear.  Always getting my fat arse stuck in tight spots looking for the honey pot. 

I guess in the end...all you can do is be yourself.  Play to your strengths...learn from your weaknesses.  One day you won't know the difference. 

So suck it up, roll the dice, let the chips fall where they may, mix all your metaphors and play like the devil wants you for a sex toy.

Because he does.

Snake Oil Salesman

Sometimes I crap on as If I'm some kind of guru. 

I go back over old stuff and read it- & I see this. 

Maybe I'm being too hard on myself- but I don't think so. 

My bullshit detector is sharp, and I'm always on the lookout for it. 

At home...and away. 

That's fair- don't you think?

Sometimes I speak of 'letting go' as if I'm some kind of fucking expert.

But I think I ought to tell you...

Every day I struggle with my base self.

Every goddamn day- every second of the day...

Listen to this; only five minutes ago, I almost said something unkind to someone.

It came from a hateful, spiteful self satisfied egotistical holier than thou kind of place.

Not at all from a loving, gentle, kind place.

I had to bite the tongue in my head before I spat the poison out.

Who cares where it came from; faulty parenting or the formaldehyde in my lager. 

It comes up...a little more often than I like.

And I have to be on my guard, all the time- so it doesn't get out. 

Like a basket full of snakes- & I really STRUGGLE to control them. 

It's just habit; I guess I can set the basket down...but I have been carrying them for so long...

I actually have myself convinced it is preferable to carrying nothing at all.

Until I set the basket down...I can never hope to love.

And love- like Latin- is a dying language
 
Part of that struggle- what helps me- is this blog.

This blog is pretty much exactly as I intended it to be- right from the very start.

A kind of diary, filled with messages, observations lessons for ME.

It's written like it's for everyone...

(Actually I'm not sure why that is.) 

Maybe because...I figured if I wrote it like I was aiming it at everyone else...

It would seem like it came from someone who knew what they were talking about.

Instead of me. 

Because most of this stuff is NOT what I do...

But what I aspire to do. 

And be. 

Every day.

I WRITE DOWN the man I want to be...

So that one day...it will stick.

So when I say 'let go'...

I'm mainly talking to me.

And it's no picnic. 

Negativity plagues me.

I cannot sleep lately; I'm not sure what the problem is.

But I can tell you this...those negative thoughts slither in like bad company.

And I spend the night trying to fight them, block them, cuddle them...

Yes, even make friends with them...

Until I don't know what to do.

And then, when I get too tired for words...

I pass out. 

I try to let love in...

But it 'aint that easy.

It takes time.

I think I miss the PHYSICAL side of love.

I cuddle a teddy.

Yes...A TEDDY.

Like I did when I was a boy.

It's OK...but I miss having a person, flesh and blood to cuddle.

If you don't cuddle someone occasionally...

You wither up and die.

The boffins have proven this- somehow.

The irony is...until the snakes are all gone....

Love will be too frightened to take residence.

& I don't blame her.

So what do I do?

I keep this blog.

There it is.

I might sound like I know what I'm talking about...

But I write like a person being chased by things that want to take a bite outta' my arse.

Because they do.

One day...

It'll all come together.

Or so Teddy tells me...

 

Intercourse With The Dead.

Broken promises... 

Words so full of possibility, without substance...they break over time in little increments.

Our bones, the brittle child-like sense of expectation, that finally snap with the realisation...

Twas all for naught.

the bitter memory we carry of the casual, careless utterances that sail triumphantly from the mouths of fools- flawed vessels on waves of empty passion that break on the shores of our vulnerability.

Like compound fractures- we can carry them around like nonsense memory.

The dull ache of the pain of a lost hope...

we carry around with us...

Words that once seemed like a new born infant, stagger on like zombies eternally, kept alive by our child like belief in them.

They can stunt our growth, and we walk eternal with the limp of bitter disappointment.

In time, if we hold onto these fractures long enough, we become conversant ourselves in the art of the broken promise. 

And others limbs we break in turn.

A world of staggering disability & disbelief.

We need to be so very careful that the language of the fractured expectation is not the only language we become conversant with. 

There are many languages out there.

Lies are one.  Truth another. 

Faith, peace and hope.

And if we must hold onto the bitter pain of the broken promise- & many among us MUST- then we would do well to ensure we do not break the most important promises of all. 

The ones we make with ourself.

To attempt to keep a promise with another without doing it for oneself- like trying to love another without first having self love- is like having intercourse with the dead.

Without their consent.  

Perverse.

My Life Lesson...

Learning

Spurning

Burning

Yearning.