the pleasures of the damned

I've been reading Bukowski's fat book of poetry like it's a life-jacket. 

there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock

I've been thinking about somethings since I read Factotum. About aspirations, work, money, jobs, my own, someone else's; dreams, lists of things to do (the concept of these things, and obviously, my own as well).

Because, see, Bukowski, he makes it seem okay not to have any of these things. Because, see, Bukowski, he seems to know the truth about normal lives and regular people. (The people are nice people, I / like them. / but I feel them drowning / and I can't save them.)  

Like I've said before, I don't know if Bukowski's good for my current state of mind. 

But this, coupled with re-reading all that fantasy with heroes and journeys and swords and things, is definitely fucking with my head. I guess my real problem is that I can't decide if my neighbors are just people who go to sleep at 9PM or, you know, something else.

This post has started to meander. Oh well.


ps. first extract from "the crunch", second extract from "safe".