As Philip Roth said, “Nothing bad can happen to a writer. Everything is material.”
I believe that's true--for the writer. For the human who contains the writer, though. . . we just need to look at Virginia Woolf or Ernest Hemingway. The quote came from the biography I am reading on Anthony Bourdain. And let's not forget about H.S. Thompson, too. Ages 61, 61, 59, and 67. People are always curious about "why." It should be clear.
Overwhelming fear and sadness.
I'm just saying. They didn't feel the need to get any older.
I watched the first episode of "The White Lotus" last night. It makes fun of old people. They are shown as hideous things. They wobble and fall and fart uncontrollably. They are juxtaposed to young people who are pretty and having fun. Even the hookers. Old people are just unnecessary burdens standing in the way of a good time.
But that is just episode one. Maybe there is revenge or redemption or something coming up. I have nine more episodes to find out. . . if I can make it.
The next few days are busy. I am not used to busy. The a.c. guy comes first thing this morning. I'll try to fit in some exercise before I go to the beautician. After that, I am supposed to go to the factory town for a union social as an honored guest. Well. . . maybe as a guest. I don't know, though, if I will go.
The gymroids have invited me to another happy hour at an Irish bar not a quarter mile from my house tomorrow night. I'm not sure about this one, either. Half the people I know have some terrible flu. Most of my mother's neighbors have it. Yesterday, an ambulance took one of them to the hospital. They are keeping her overnight. I'm trying to stay healthy. Maybe I'll go to the vitamin and mineral infusion place and get loaded up on all the essential ingredients that build a strong immune system. I'll pump myself full of them until I'm like a Marvel Comic Book hero.
Saturday I am having dinner with my new old friend. She's still twelve years old, able to show off. I'm just clinging, my fingernails ripping out one by one. I'll have some Xanax and whiskey beforehand. No worries. It's all for fun.
Now you might be asking yourself, "What the fuck is wrong with this guy?" Me, too. It is so uncharacteristic of me, right? But of a sudden, there are shiny, reflective surfaces everywhere, you know. . . I keep seeing myself in a hall of funhouse mirrors.
But you know the old saying--art is art and fun is fun, and never the twain shall meet. No. . . that's not it.
I just need to drink more water. That's what they say, the water drinkers. It is the key to something. I can't remember.
Sorry about this one. I had bad dreams all night. I got up early in the darkness. I didn't think I could last through one more. Now the grey dawn is lumbering to life. There is much to do.
I should have plenty of material.
"Flores para las amantes. Flores para los muertes."
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