my laptop died – hopefully temporarily. I have good friends who know how to fix this shit. I hope that that Clotho can come back to life.
I don’t like this – my books are on it and I can’t get to them, all of the photos I’ve taken of the people I have loved and continue to, all of the memories, for now irretrievable, out of reach.
Strange and terrifying how much my laptop has become my refuge, my solace, my security blanket. There is something I need to write, the perfect setting, the perfect solitude. I’ve read how a couple of my favorite authors have their perfect moments and preserve them – Tom Robbins writes only by hand, which I used to be able to do but these days the strokes can’t keep up with the words that spew out of my head. Richard Brautigan found his place in Bolinas in a certain room after writing such beautifully naive stories wrapped in a gloriously humble imagination. His time had passed, though, and his acclaim had waned. He set the timer for the lights so it looked like someone was still alive, and ate a bullet. This knowledge was taken from the only book his daughter wrote – “You Can’t Catch Death”.
Do me a favor. Read “In Watermellon Sugar” and The Hawkline Monster” by him. Read him and you just might come closer to me. I don’t have favorites, the weight is too much to carry and changes all too often – but he has written my favorite poems, a few seen here: http://thisrecording.wordpress.com/2007/06/14/in-which-we-pass-along-the-poetry-of-one-richard-brautigan-we-are-bringing-it-back/
and this one.
“There is no worse hell to remember vividly a kiss that never occurred.”
We all have our needs, our perfect places, though we write everywhere on anything because that is what we do. It’s not an art, it is therapy. My parents sent me to numerous counselors and therapists as a child trying to find answers to the way I behaved, and there was only one who came close to touching on anything. Monty. He used to take me to the Pannikin Cafe in Encinitas, and we drank coffee together, just like regular people, no leather couches, we were friends. I was probably about 14 or 15 years old. I don’t know, but I remember one thing he said.- “You aren’t really excited by anything, are you, Casey.” And he pegged it. Perfectly.
No, I wasn’t. All mundane, all trivial. The life I was living wasn’t mine – there needed to be terror, uncertainty, all of the things that lead to growth. I was just me, I was nothing and everything and I was becoming.
I had no idea of what I could be then – now – I do, and I try. I try and I do. I scrape my flesh to the bone and dream, scream.
I continue to scream, and do my best not to let you see it.
My laughter is genuine, my love even more so.
Things are incredibly difficult these days – but I’m always up for a challenge.
But still, I grow weary.