More Bukowski

"Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communisim health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hynotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, coducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yougrtm Beethoven, Bach, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find something to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice."

-Charles Bukowski

Friday I woke up.

No work thank god.

I was tired, and my body was hurting because of the alcohol. I had gorged on it and the aches and pains of it were a little more than I would have liked to go through. But the night before had been such a whirlwind that I couldn't really find it in myself to regret the pain and suffering of the morning.

We had Waffle House the night before, so my stomach was full and I had no desire to eat.

And my phone rang.

My dad calling to tell me that he is coming to take me to get breakfast.

It is the last thing that I want for my stomach, but hanging out with my pops really appeals to me.

I tell him to meet me at a gas station that is right by the house that I spent the night at.

I walk over to the gas station and light a cigarette, and stand out side. Suddenly I feel the need to text M. (not sM.) that I must look just like Kevin Smith. That gives her a laugh and I smoke another cigarette. I get another text from D. and it is one of the voice ones. So I call the number and it is a message about him and Tr. going to the hospital because she is having her baby. I've never been so excited for someone else to have a child. They will be some awesome parents.

As I'm standing there is old hippy burn out comes to the gas station. She is inside for a few (buying coffee and smokes I assume) then she comes out. She starts talking to me, and I'm good with polite conversation for about five sentences. Then she starts to wear on me. She is starting into her life story and where she is from and how she loves mexican food from new mexico, and I'm starting to feel like I want to be somewhere else because my alergies are kicking in, and my body aches and I need another cigarette. And then my dad pulls up.

I tell the burn out that I have to go.

Then I go.

We stop at a truck stop to eat and we are sitting there. I love talking with my dad and he loves to hear me tell him about all the trouble I get in. He is philosophical about it in the most hilarious way. Little bits about Buddha, and the Rosary. It is fucking brilliant. I love him so much for him. But I don't love the idea of eating. I order french toast hoping that it will be light enough for me to not want to kill myself.

I order it with straberry expecting some fresh fruit. But it is a truck stop, so it comes with strawberry glaze. It makes me want to gag, so I start scraping it all off. In the end I can only stomach about half of the french toast.

The conversation with my dad is always good so that part I like. And the coffee.

When it is ove I just have him drop me off at a book store. I want to read something that reads the way I feel. Sick and alone.

And that is when I pick up Women by Bukowski. I'm finding that I relate with him far to well.

I put this in a draft so I don't know where it was going. I'll gather my thoughts and come back to it.

File under Virtue. I love my pops.