Hank... how I've missed you
I have fallen into the arms again of a dead cynical man, my love, Bukowski. I am currently reading THE CAPTAIN IS OUT TO LUNCH AND THE SAILORS HAVE TAKEN OVER THE SHIP. It is basically his journal that he was writing when he was 71 years old. His writing seems to fill the void for me. He writes about life, real life. Not the surreal that we like to dream about or the romantic fantasy American directors would have us believe is real life, but dirty, ugly, boring life.
"I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, when I was 35. I've been at them for 46 years and I figure they still owe me $5,000. Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more years I might die even.
Now that's a goal worth shooting for, don't you think?
Huh?"
"I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, when I was 35. I've been at them for 46 years and I figure they still owe me $5,000. Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more years I might die even.
Now that's a goal worth shooting for, don't you think?
Huh?"