Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Strange things begin to happen when February rolls around. They always have for me. Last night I caught the last bus home. I haven't been riding this new route very long, but I know when we stop and don't stop.

And as the bus slowed down I knew it was not meant to. And it most certainly wasn't supposed to come to a complete stop. But it had. I peered out the unobstructed view from my passenger-side seat near the windshield into the night air. My eyes are bad in the sun and worst at night. But I could see the deer trot clearly and defiantly across the 4-lane road. I could see the steam in the air as breath left its flared nostrils. And I watched as he sauntered off into someone's suburban backyard.

And five minutes later, as the bus approached my stop and I thanked the often-disgruntled driver, I could have sworn he was the same man whose picture hangs in the row of the professor hall of fame on the long wall in the library. I'm almost sure that's him smiling at me somewhere between 1974 and 1980.

Today I went to bookstore, disappointed because my Amazon used textbook order from January 13th had still not arrived and I have a test on some of the material tomorrow. So I went to the store, found the nearest comfy chair and read the whole thing for free. All the while taunted by a book on the shelves of the poetry section. "Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way" By Charles Bukowski. I hate most poetry. (That's a story for another day) But for some reason, I wanted to pick up the book. Just to hold it. To smell it. Maybe it was ADD. Maybe it was intrigue. Maybe it was Tony Pierce. I dropped the textbook and, in one fluid movement, stepped toward the shelf, swooped up the book and floated back towards my chair. I read. And I liked.

I thought, fuck. What the hell am I writing? Journalism is bland. It's dull and sad and lifeless. I want to write about doing and seeing, about getting lost and about fucking and being old. But a line in Work-Fuck Problem reminded me that "ambition has killed more artists than indolence". After all, Bukowski didn't start writing poetry until he was 35. And He didn't stop (writing or fucking) until he died. So I guess I have a couple years left of fucking up, fucking girls, wasting my life and getting lost.

Cuz if I don't start doing it now then I might as well call up the local, daily newspaper and tell them they've got a shitty, hack of a writer ready to sign up for life. Now I'm waiting for two used Amazon book orders and I don't really care if the textbook ever comes.

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