Last night was grueling. Here’s Chinaski:
I was glad I wasn’t in love, that I wasn’t happy with the world. I like being at odds with everything. People in love often become edgy, dangerous. They lose their sense of perspective. They lose their sense of humor. They become nervous, psychotic bores. They even become killers.
It’s true. I can’t even begin to enumerate the ways in which remaining in Indiana has damaged my personality and my ability to communicate. It’s probably why I write. People there live in this Goddamn bubble of hick safety which permits them to grow to be huge (hugely mediocre) fishes in their tiny little ponds. To feel like a fat cat even when on the grand scale you’re a timid dweeb is the goal, and fuck the rest because they don’t swim with you. GAH I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE GET ME OUT I WANT OUT I CAN’T BREATHE ANYMORE I AM DAMAGED FOR LIVING THERE SO LONG AND SUFFOCATED AND I’M TAKING IT OUT ON MY LOVERS AND THEY ARE FUCKING LEAVING IT IS ALL MY FAULT OR YOURS, INDIANAAaaaaaaaa
And so this morning hasn’t held much in the way of interesting happenings. I’m back at Tryst. You know what that means? That’s right, it’s time for the Rabid Character Sketcher to come alive and leer at people again. Who are we skeezing out today? I’m glad you asked!
Directly across from me in a comfortable chair is writer-guy. We are wearing the same shoes: Note-Taker 9000s. We both have blue jeans on. He is of…Italian descent? Beard shadow and greased hair, thick eyebrows and a notepad. Unfortunately for him, he has blue eyes. In them is reflected the great picture window through which he’s staring…right now. I’d say he’s looking at the facade across the street, but know better. He’s got the flush of writer’s block in his cheeks.
Sitting next to him is Ripped Old Guy. We are both wearing tight black t-shirts. He has curly gray hair that used to be blond. A pair of wire-frame rectangular glasses sits over his nose; they’re too wide for his face. He’s wearing gray denim jeans. Oops! Very hip with his MacBook and iPod earbuds.
Next to me is Shaky Girl. She’s spilled her tea several times now and ordered soup, the dessicated remains of which you’ll find next to my shoes, mixed with tea. She has next to no hair, by choice. She’s pretty, and compulsively and vainly checks her Gmail.
I’m reading “Women” by Bukowski, which has granted me license to look at all of these people through a shameless lens. I also just read a short story by a friend and gave him notes. I tend to think there’s an economy in all that reading, meaning that if you’re at it long enough, and you’re doing it actively, it actually decreases the amount of energy you have to write afterward. I could be tired from a shitty sleep, but when I think about finishing this essay I’ve got to crack on (worth THREE credits, mind you) all the inspiration just runs down my leg. Whaddya gonna do? Probably take a shower and drink some green beer, take some photos and get thrown in jail. Let’s do this right.