After making my lemon meringue (shot of vanilla galliano, dash of cointreau, lemon slices, two shots pineapple juice, shaken over ice, served long) to take back to my room alone, I think of Bukowski.
For a long time I thought that his power was that he was unhappy, but didn’t give a fuck.
Now I know that his power was that, unhappy sometimes, like all of us, he was happy, gave a fuck what people thought, but kept on going.
He was an ugly old drunk who wrote poetry, hated his own work, got rejected time after time after time after time and still just… went on, found some happiness from what he did.
At every turn be shown for what he was and not fight it, accept it.
Became famous and still, live how he always had
He turned apathy into acceptance, graced nonchalance into zen.
There’s a bit in one of his books, he gets driven around to a few speaking gigs by a student, huge fan of his, says he’s his favourite living poet.
Bukowski fucks it up, gets wasted, continually, gives incoherent speeches and all the while his student grits his teeth, goes along, because he’s his idol.
Maybe I’m just another in a legion on misguided fucks worshipping a lecherous old barfly for all the wrong reasons.
via Daily Prompt: Dash
Sometimes I take the bus home; they run all night.
Whenever I hop on I feel like a part of something.
A temporary member of a secluded little society, the worn down driver greeting me wordlessly, my fellow passengers not; absorbed in their phones, books, blankly staring out the window, too tired to sleep.
There’s no talk, no verbal camaraderie, but we’re together nonetheless.
We roll quietly along the asphalt. Noises come when we shudder to a halt to collect silhouettes from the side of the road, to join us on our journey, always with one hand raised, assured of our aid.
So thus we spend our short time, together whilst alone, the blackness and silence of outside the glass squeezing our world in a little bit tighter.
When I finally step off into the cool night, into the yellow wash cast by the streetlights clouds of moths beat themselves to death on, I always feel a distinct sense of being totally alone.
The bus rumbles to life, my oasis of belonging fading into the night.
I feel nostalgia for the community that left me behind.
via Daily Prompt: Passenger
I knew a girl once, we would meet up every week or so to spend some time together.
It was only after a few months of this that I realised I knew nothing about her.
I mean, in the beginning there was the polite attempt at more, but there was no real connection and it quickly regressed into laid-back semi-scheduled sex. it was better that way.
Of course, eventually she drifted into a serious relationship and out of our casual one.
I ate a whole block of mozzarella cheese the other day, and after, during the nausea, the stomach pain thought: perhaps that would have been better, as a snack.
via Daily Prompt: Snack
I miss the sun.
I started working nights, which is convenient in a lot of ways: no traffic to work, penalty rates, cool moonlit motorbike rides home at five in the morning.
Now, it’s winter, so the sun’s only getting limited stage time and I I ain’t seeing even half of the whole show.
Wake up at two, coffee, exercise, shower, breakfast, laundry & tidy.
Now it’s four thirty in the afternoon and I stand on my balcony and watch the sun fall away on the horizon, I feel the heat recede with it, making me shiver and turn inside.
There is something, de-motivational about the night.
Something primal that urges me to retreat back to my space. Something lodged in the lizard part of my brain telling me: stay in your cave: it’s scary out there.
It’s not so bad, I don’t mind being alone in my cosy yellow light with a few books and my laptop, and my housemates get home in the afternoon and it’s nice, to talk to them.
But then, when their conversations grow animated, when drinks and meals are shared, when the real affection of of our little community comes out, I leave into the darkness to sling drinks.
The warmth, the light of the sun, and of this little clique, I miss.
via Daily Prompt: Sunny
I never liked bourbon.
It was the only liquor in the house.
Kinda how, I wasn’t for her, until I was the only one around.
See now; I learnt to like bourbon, I still do, a little, but I don’t choose it first.
So I guess I shouldn’t blame her.
I don’t blame my tastebuds.
Some things just don’t taste so good.
Its one am and of I’m not sleeping because I don’t generally until around four, but I can’t relax in my room, there’s a girl asleep in there who needs to be up for work at five.
So I listen to a podcast which mentions Fritz Haber and now it’s two-thirty and I’m coming out of a wikipedia rabbit hole about The Battle of Ypres, the Kennedy curse, Lobotomies as behaviour modification and how effective is modern bulletproof glass.
I feel like some company, so I throw on a hoodie and head out the front door.
I get to the 7/11 after ten minutes walking alone on a cool starlit morning and feel welcomed by the automatic doors admitting me smoothly, the door sensor letting off a small noise to let the clerk know I’m here and worthy of attention.
Rashad greets me warmly; there’s a certain kind of kinship amongst people who live in the sunless half of life, a type of camaraderie that always forms amongst people populating the less desirable.
We talk, small but loud in the halogen wash of the gas station, lords of the night, surveyors of the domain.
We talk sports, women, work, how the world is fucked up and if we were in charge how it wouldn’t be; banter that goes nowhere but doesn’t need to.
The talk tapers off, naturally, he gives me an expired krispy kreme and I head back to my dark and occupied room. She’ll wake up soon, and head to her day job, I’ll head to bed.
Lovely girl, but not one of us.
I work at a bar right, and sometimes we have specials right, where the price of a popular cocktail drops from $18 to $6 for one hour.
The place is packed, this is a fantastic deal, hundreds on hundreds of espresso martinis are sold, for only a third of their regular price!
People are happy and so they should be, they are smart consumers, capitalising on an opportunity, buying multiple before the deal runs out, what a bargain!
Shot of vodka, shot of coffee liqueur, shot of espresso, dash of simple syrup; total cost to make $1.62, (don’t forget your overheads, wages and such)
Time to make, around 40 seconds, if multiple at once, even less.
I said I’d learn the guitar, promised myself. Listed the positives it would have on my life, the wholesome pleasure it would bring, watched a motivational video, bought a guitar.
I start practicing and 5 minutes in my fingers were etched with pain from the steel strings, I stop.
The next day, it hurts more.
The next day, even more.
A few days later, a little less.
The next day, not at all.
There are little calluses where the pain used to come from.
It does makes me happy.
A woman has lost her child, his name is Joseph, she’s sobbing, the police have arrived.
As I learn this I change my route home to go through places I imagine a small child might find interesting, the waterfront, the cemetery, no luck.
As I arrive at my street I have an tinge of conscience.
I could keep looking, but I’ll be late for work, I need this job, but what if he’s hurt, but how much help would I be anyway, the police can handle it, but the look on her face, the police know what to do, it’s not too much time, I’ll be late for work, I need this job, he’ll be fine, but what if he’s not, I need this job.
I turn the down the street.
As I run past the next day, I see Joseph playing happily in the street under the exaggerated hawk eyes of his mother. She smiles broadly and thanks me for my help, yesterday. He’d just gotten lost and had taken a nap.
I smile back, chance having given me a free pass on my terrible priorities, this time.
If you live in a cul-de-sac, like I do, on the exit lane side, like I do, you probably know as well as I do, how it adds a little excitement to your life.
You see, in a regular street, someone coming to visit pulls into your driveway, someone who is not coming to visit, keeps going. There isn’t any real anticipation.
But a cul-de-sac! Unless their recipient lives on the entry lane side, the driver is going to do a loop, so you see the brief flash of car and maybe, they’re coming back to see you.
Or maybe they’re not, or maybe they’re lost, or maybe they’re delivering parcels, but regardless, there’s always that moment of possibility.
That’s why I put my desk next to the window; the chance, the loop.