We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come.
– Joseph Campbell
I am thirty and I don’t believe in anything anymore. Only G-d and books. Love feels like a dream gone wrong; for life never made any sense before or after her.
Fate has her cruelties, just like nature; there are seasons that wash away dreams.
But what is underfoot, at bedrock, on the riverbank of your life – beneath the ceaseless torrent of change – what is the truth that does not yield?
For me, it’s my life as a writer.
The other kind of life is killing me. Trying to fit in. Trying to date. Trying to pretend my constitution agrees with this American life.
So I think about planes, and journeys: places altogether unlike this capitalist empire. I am coming to see that I need to shape my world as I see it fit to live in; for this is no life for me. No life at all.
Best case scenario USA: I become famous with my books, live the Hollywood dream, and am loved by a bunch of people who wouldn’t otherwise even look me in the eye.
There is a reason a certain kind of writer has historically left this country; too many heartaches and bad breaks and the psychic baggage reaches a tipping point; his values pull him over, beckoning him toward distant borders.
So, after I finish my story, perhaps I will buy a boat. Sail a southeasterly course from Marina Del Rey. Or, maybe just a ticket to Mexico. I don’t know. But I’m dying to go.
Planes or Pills
Give me planes or give me pills,
I can buy it
Hundred. dollar. bills
Consumption kills –
Life will not last
Yet strength of will can keep a soul intact
For naught is immortal but love,
Heroism and the heart above
He became a martyr in the final act
But he was lost all along
Trying to love someone long gone
An American horror story
Hearts of men – heroes – dying for coquettes
Gamines, drinking honey without ever breaking a sweat
The fuel for bittersweet regrets
The selfish are not due a mortal debt
You see, she was my executioner
Her magic skin
Sweet was her love but fatal our sin
For little did I know,
Her kiss would take my bliss
I now retrace my Nihilism back to her lips
For my life’s never made any sense,
Before or since