Something is wrong with me…
Something is wrong with me….
Something is wrong with me. I am like a Bukowski poem gone wrong. Bukowski told us, do what you love, even if you must be alone, you must go hungry, be homeless and know hard days. Go all the way or just become a mountain that don’t move.
I have become the mountain now, never moving, accepting life as-is. Once I wanted to save my world, write the great novel and live near the sea. I befallen and I can’t find my real face. I feel I am becoming more stone and rock the human skin.
Once I drank to feel alive, once I sought war to know I was alive. Love was never my strength, patience is my enemy and kindness is forgotten. Bukowski would tell me. “You did a fool’s dance for the rich men. Skinned off your real face and be-face with liar eyes. Now accepting, just enough. Remember Johnnie, never trust a man who doesn’t drink. Drink the strong whiskey till you can see, then, your sleepy eyes can be awaken by the taste of the whiskey. You will see, you are swimming in shit.”
Something is wrong with me. I have become the Hemingway’s ghost. I need the tropical sea, quiet places and polite woman. I have none of these. I need to follow Hemingway’s advice. Finish one project and work on one thing only. End at good open statement so you can find the flow of thoughts again. I need to bleed to paper.
I met Bukowski once in California in the early nineties in a Tavern. I had a lot of cash and I bought the whiskey and we drank. He liked me and he told me. “Write hard words, honest words. Make the people feel your suffering.” I didn’t know who he was that day. His last words were very cool. He told me, “You write like shit, but suffer some more and you will write better.” Maybe I am where I suppose to be? Maybe I wasn’t brave enough? Maybe I didn’t drink enough?