and going to bed
for 3 or 4
days.
and the next best
part
was
nobody ever
missed
me.
--Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone Sometimes That It Just Makes Sense
Bukowski had it right. Any empathy in these words does not move beyond the "me." A familiar stretch of the imagination. Not even a stretch-- a piss dribble upon Father Time.
Self-pity isn't as useless as you might think. Some of the most self-serving assholes have been great writers and artists. But this insert was different the first time around-- before the freakin' system crashed. Now it feels like taking a hard shit, when you've already let it all out. What are you left with? Blood on the toilet roll. Hemorroidal itch.
Half a day of sleep can be confounding for anyone. Or maybe it's just a needed rest. Bukowski recommends 3 or 4 days-- only a little bit more.
Oscar Wilde recommended pursuing a life of pleasure. His forays into homosexual hedonism landed him in prison. From there, he wrote a 120-page love letter to his young boy toy, entitled De Profundis. What did it say? You, my love, ruined me; you sterilized my art; you bankrupted my finances; you landed me in this hell-hole; but can't we just meet again?
A testament to the idiocy of love. Baby jackals, roaving for the simplest of pleasures. What is before you, dear? What will it take to make you smile?
--Kat La Chatte 2/8/01