Strange Days (Part 436)

Spent most of this morning and well into lunch in two branches of Waterstones - separated by two visits to Starbucks for fuel - and spent far too long in the company of Charles Bukowski. The more I read this guy, the more I get to like, maybe even love, him. He just didn't give damn what anybody thought, wrote and wrote, then wrote some more. I'm convinced there was a big bulb over my head complete with caption that read "that's the way to do it".

I've whipped my way through about 3 novels so far (Pulp, Women and Post Office) and this morning accidentally veered into his poetry. I'm convinced that somebody I know would crucify me - very publicly - for saying this was poetry at all but it seems like pure stream of conscious genius to me. I'm not sure what the dictionary definition of 'poetry' is but I am sure that there isn't a picture of him underneath the word.

Those are the foibles that make books what they are though... one man's trash really can be another's treasure. Anyway... it all got me thinking which is always a dangerous thing.

I wish I got Kerouac as well, but I simply don't. This bothers me a great deal. Maybe I'm just not old enough. Sometimes I feel like I should pretend I do just in case somebody smites me down in the street for being a heathen.

Bored of waiting for Ida to post Gene vs Bob blog post, so I'm going to post it here tomorrow morning. That's something you can all look forward too, he said sarcastically to himself.

More tomorrow... need to catch up on projects for a while.

Sound: H.I.M | Deep Shadows and Brilliant Highlights
Sight: Still cracking on with Rebus...
Smell: White gloss paint (though not straight out of the tin)
Taste: the bitterness of miles
Touch: aftermath of the sandpaper before the gloss paint
Sixth: don't ask... don't even go there