Wednesday
We had to move things six feet away from the walls at the end of the flat so the men could come and stick pins in the wall and stop the building falling down. Six feet? You wouldn't think that was a lot.
When they are all dead, I will live in a place with space. Not space to fill, just space. The minimum. Hoarders live with me now. I took some photies of the flat, but I can't get to the wee thing you fit the other wee thing into to get free photies on the computery thing because everything is piled up on top of everything else and it looks a bit like Japan.
I won't be able to stay in the flat tomorrow when I'm off work. The toilet will be out of order when I get home this afternoon.
All I want is a room somewhere. Far away from the cold night air.
After five nights on the home brew, I wakened this morning in a very good mood and heard the words that reminded me of a Charles Bukowski poem. Somehow it made me stop bothering about getting on in this world.
Yesterday I wasted some time on the clicky clicky trying to advertise the book I have on Kindle. Today I can see the folly of all this. I was born to die poor. I'm going to stick all my ten books on Kindle and just leave them there. Somebody will read them sometime or they won't. I will pay as little attention to my writer's blog as possible.
I want to meditate and I want to write. All the rest is just a load of old intermittent re-enforcement and that's for pigeons.
3 comments:
What was the poem?
Albert? It should have been: "Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way." But it wasn't. Hope this helps. Hotboy
Everything that doesn't kill you, helps.
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