Confessions of a Mad Blogger
What have I got to be mad about? Not mad in the sense that I’m angry, mad in the old British sense as in “off my nut” or some such colloquialism.
I was reading one of Kerouac’s later books last night in bed. It was getting late and my mind was fading into dreamland when I came across the ending of a chapter about his early days as a novice writer. To paraphrase, he exclaims, “What’s the sense in writing if you don’t write about the things you want to write about?” And I get that. I really do.
Another one of my favorite writers is Charles Bukowski, a man with a very interesting face who claimed that hard work and an 8 hour days were the toiling of foolish human beings. He also called Kerouac a bad writer and he despised all of my other heroes. But then again, he was poisoned with drink. His mind was most likely in a fog, but oh, what a beautiful fog and it would roll out and onto the paper and some genius found these ramblings and he published them. And one day Bukowski was able to quit his job at the post office. What a beautiful story.
He always talked about the God’s and how they were testing him and how his heroes like John Fante were not spared by the Gods for his death was very painful and drawn out. Who knows, maybe the Gods are reading this right now, wondering what to do with it? Who will read it? Who will like it? Who will think it’s just a bunch of toiling by a foolish human being?
