"The cars hiss by my window, like the waves down on the beach." I sit & listen to them all day, the damn cars. And when I focus, I hear them, when I remind myself, zoom, zoom. Else I tune it out eventually, I suppose.
Which all that means is that I'm slowly losing my mind. What am I even doing here? Why is it so silent that I can hear the damn cars zooming? Turn on the damn TV, man! some music. Go take a walk, get out of the apartment—something!
But I've shut myself in. The lease just covered for a year, I've not much more. And I'm indulging completely in my comfort, in some shelter, in order to pursue my own interests a bit. But, it's driving me crazy.
I see it in my writing, the revelation, it's there between the lines. There's only 2 topics I'm currently obsessed about. One of them is my pervasive loneliness. And the 2nd, how to improve my writing—in order to get some money, in order to allow me to get out & ramble-about.
Which is foolish, the latter, I know. Or well, the desire to improve my writing is genuine. I even write about improving my writing. It's kind of funny. The tail-end of that, however, about the money, that's the reason for this strong desire to improve, though, I only suspect. Because I am so lonely. And I need money to get out. Which is the foolishness. Because I've been homeless with barely a dime to my name, all out & about. It takes nothing. It's just, that I've become comfortable, complaining...if I had to get out in those streets again, I don't want to. So, why do it now, willfully?
Though it's exactly what I need.
What's to do? the eternal state of man, never satisfied. Or, sounds like woman, actually, insatiable woman, Eve bites the coconut. People would kill for what I have; I'd kill for what they have—families, friends, lives! all that, obligations, appointments, responsibilities, some cutter in my carmans, some jang-a-lang.
I'd have nicer clothes, certainly, let me tell you that. The first bit of money I get, I'm going straight to the tailor. Despos, up in the city, it'll be a nice little trainride & walk, up to the north-side, up there by Wrigley, kind of, stop for a Guinness again, only a couple pairs of trousers, that'll be enough. Wool, of course. Unless linen for the summer.
Some wine for breakfast, I'm really trying my best to enjoy this, look at me. Wine for breakfast? it's disgusting. But the wine is good. I'm just sipping, the glass left-over from last night. Dionysus jumps to his feet, more like Saint Francis & his bunnies, or John the Baptist & his crickets. The bugs are flying outside the window, 3rd story, I've no idea how I see them. Old Johhny boy, here, reaches through the screen, he's a bit hungry, & snags one of the cicadas out of the air, a little snack, crunch, crunch, crunch, some vino to wash it all down, the little legs still wiggling in his teeth, bless you. That hermit-hole in Biarritz, cut into the side of the rock-face, there were 2 of them, where you slept so peacefull, you crawled up into one of them, protected just over the road to that hotel, the only opening overlooking the sea. A little wet when you woke, all the spray, the mist. A little wine for breakfast, like a dirty, old priest, I see them, tobacco dripping down their chins, penning their homilies all week.
Though, I'm more like Pan, I'd say. The nature, it is. Dionysus is more of a city god, all the vice up there—if only I had the pesos to indulge, I bet I would, however, & wouldn't be so critical, then.
As it stands, however. I've got my glass of wine, & an entire half-a-bottle remaining, I was so surprised. It's like a mental block. Usually I must at least drink nearly the entire thing before I sleep. Save at least a little splash for the morning. Last night, I didn't even half-finish the first glass I had, a Pat on the back. Like I'm just sipping it, like some Kool-Aid, or something, just for a bit of flavor here & there, a slight, slight buzz with bigger sips, else 2 or 3.
I know what it was! I discovered my beloved cornmeal is not so good for me afterall, I checked the ingredients, I was blindly buying. Niacin, some other shit. When I know for a fact back home it had none of this shit in it. So, I'll have to find some natural,—if only I could make my own! some dried corn I grew & a mill—I think I did indeed see some up at the store, no doubt more expensive, & check the label. If it's listed, it's illegal to lie, I think. Though, don't think it's mandatory to be labeled, the ingredients. I don't know. But it's so difficult to find good food, honestly. This crazy world we live in, it's absolutely savage.
So, I was out on the little balcony last night, having an evening cigarette I roll once a day some days, thinking. The elephant in the cabinet had finally gone to sleep, I couldn't hear her stomping round in there anymore, the neighbor through the wall, she just can't sit still when she's awake, banging round this & that, it makes me so nervouse. It's her who pays for the thing, it's her balcony, though I've a door out to it too, it's more like an enclosed room, just missing its North wall, a comfortable, little spot, she's got a couple chairs out there, an old rug, & a bunch of plants. She'd not like me out there smoking probably. I'll try to bring it up to her one of these times I see her. She's awfully chatty. And so am I, I find myself, surprisingly, it's the damn loneliness—finally, an opportuity to speak!
But I was out there last night, thinking of how savage this world is, my poor cornmeal. How you must have money to even find any good food, all the junk they're selling out here, I've almost no other option. And I decided, if only for that, for better food, I'll get rich, my mind has been made, my rationalization. Greed has forced Death into the world, who'll mercilessly take what he needs, now, in order to eat, after having tried to restrain himself & live simply. You've forced the sickle to strike.