I figure I'm killing the blog with my gloom. Either it is that or people are not logging in during the holidays. But I'm not going to take a chance. I need to try to get out of my funk. I wish I got a kick out of marijuana the way a lot of you do. Drinking suits me more, but it is killing my waistline for sure.
I'm sitting in the Cafe Strange once again just to get out of the house. I've been sitting at home for days now. It is not the best thing for me right now. I thought coming out and being around other people might help me.
I think I was wrong.
Perhaps I need a spiritual advisor.
Oh, shit. . . I'm still gloomy it seems. It is not a creative gloom but the kind that is devastating. You can probably tell that I had a Christmas break up. I'm too old for this kind of thing and too broken. I am beginning to feel sorry for myself which is the worst emotion you can suffer.
"When you're feeling shitty,
Irony and pity. . . . "
I've lost the irony.
I just looked it up. Here's how it goes:
Man. What did we do before the internet? Yes, that's the idea, anyway. I'm feeling shitty. Show me irony and pity. Anatole France said that irony and pity were what was needed in modern literature. Hemingway did not like France thinking him an intellectual snob. Stoicism was Hemingways creed.
He shot himself. It happens.
When I came into the cafe, it was mostly women. I just looked up and there are only fellows now. That, I think, is bad juju. They are not your typical guys, I must say, but even hipster men are dicks. Maybe it just can't be helped.
Jesus. There are a ton of them. These are not the kind of fellows who watch the last weekend of NFL football, I guess.
I'm going to my mother's for dinner in a bit. Maybe I'll turn on football. It is either that or watch something she watches like "Gunsmoke" or "Dr. Pimple Popper." No, I'm not shitting you. She watches that and "My 600 Pound Life." I don't know how she can stand it.
Fuck. This is another shitty post, so I'll go ahead and post it now. Consider it therapy. Mine, not yours. Nobody comes to read the blog at night anyway. I'll post something in the morning.
I almost led with this Detroit picture.
I think my next girlfriend will not be so pretty. Pretty girls always bring me trouble.
I keep writing these long posts and then deleting them.
I've always found "meaning" here. For what it is worth. That's why I came and never left.
You pondered the meaning of all your work - the writings, pictures, scribbles in a previous post I read. I'm just getting around to being able to write a response.
Sometimes I've been frustrated by what I've read. I want to knock you in the head. That's good, though. Right?
“only someone who is ready for everything, who doesn't exclude any experience, even the most incomprehensible, will live the relationship with another person as something alive and will himself sound the depths of his own being.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
I have been in communion with whoever has been making these blog entries all these eons. I'm pretty sure it is U.
I have always come willingly - to be frustrated, soothed, to make myself question myself and the world around me via- the words, the photos. Your brain. Your feelings.
It is a journey. A Heroes journey. Of course.
We all should have them over and over like Mr. Campbell said.
You've gifted us with the telling and sharing of yours - which from time to time we find - are also ours.
T. left 1500 plus poems, many journals. They are his journey. And I can read them out of order - in order - it doesn't matter. They are alive with his essence as if he was still here telling the stories.
I hope you never stop writing. Revealing. Confronting.
Okies. I mean not to make your head swell - you already know you are the Star.
I have another day to fill. It is going to be sunny. But cool this morning. I need to bring some outdoor plants in. I picked 6 red tomatoes yesterday. There are many, many green left. I'm thinking I need to bring them in now.
The sun is streaming through the window.