Wednesday, December 09, 2009

I Break

the water's grown
but it's not the 12th

and my references are so obscure i barely get them...

i take my last bite of the chicken wings i ordered in - not the last bite because i have run out of food, clearly the four boxes of random apps and entrees are almost untouched. no, rather it is my last bite because i'm full....or at least i think i'm full.

it's a weird feeling - my stomache growls wanting more, yet the thought of putting anymore sustance down the hatch makes me feel queasy. how can one be full and hungry at the same can one person experience such polar opposite feelings, such extreme emotions simultaneously?

i try to forget about the craziness of it and continue reading my book - it's bukowski's Hollywood. I've been in a mood to read something, and all the books i would have picked up were never returned by those who "borrowed" them - another reason why i hate lending things out to people, it never comes back to you the same way you left it, if at all....

this book was actually a gift, not to me, but from me to a girl i once knew. i actually have never read the book, but i love bukowski's writing and so i picked up one of his novel's hoping the future english teacher would enjoy his writing too....funny how almost three years later i came across it in storage, still wrapped...

so ultimately it was a gift to me. and the timing in my life couldn't have been more appropriate.

as i have said i have always enjoyed bukowski's poems and short stories..but this book so far is....nothing special. granted i'm barely into it, but i think i should be captivated from the moment i open the should call out to me, like nausea or the waiter rant or whatever

but that's just me, basing all my feelings on the initial may think it's wrong to "judge a book by it's cover" but i've never been wrong before...

i can't concentrate, my stomach is doesn't make sense and i can't come up with any reasoning for it..i have plenty of food to eat, if i were hungry, but i'm full..this point is proven as my eyelids tarp over my eyes and i sink into the pillows. i know fighting it will get me nowhere..if i try i'll get twenty pages ahead and not remember a thing, it'll be a waste of time, might as well stop now.

i lay there with my eyes closed for an hour, asleep for maybe half of it, the latter half...and when i finally come to again i am greeted with a hungry stomach.. but since time has passed i've made a little bit of room in my tummy for some food...but it doesn't help.

i read on, and in the process i start to resurrect my inner dialogue. this is a funny thing, it's a delicate thing. the rattled dust fills the air, scattering about as each piece going in it's own ryhme or reason..tickling my insides..the sounds of spoken words fill my head, rising from the ash and now taking form as bukowski.

the heat kicks on as i can feel a gust of air now blowing on me. it's a love/hate relationship i have with winter - i hate the cold and the snow when i'm outside, but when i'm inside, when i can control the environment, cranking up the heat, wrapping up in a blanket yet still being able to look out the windows at the white sheets covering everything, then i'm happy.

but with winter comes the coldness in my soul, a hibernation of sensibility..and just like a bukowski poem or existential story out comes the tortured artist that lies within me...the winter not only causes people to huddle into their warm homes, closing windows and the outside world; i take that to the extreme..shutting out those i know and love in a depressive downward spiral...and just as your furnace kicks in, my bleeding heart too pours out...

this could be a good thing, but then again, you can't have the sweet without the sour...another catch 22, the story of my life

"if it made sense or was normal, it wouldn't be the jangus life"

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