Tag Archives: Charles Bukowski

The mourning of the growing of a flower

“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.”

― Charles Bukowski

Just going through the motions from birth to death is not living. Sometimes you need to kick and scream to wake yourself up, to feel it. And I can feel myself getting itchy again. (I almost typed a ‘like’-sentence there, but I hate ‘like’ with a vengeance, so, no.)

I want to ride the next big wave. Problem is, I don’t see it yet. There are ripples, but nothing substantial is underneath just yet. Sometimes I see something that excites me, great art, an awesome band, a blog with thought-provoking content, maybe some photography that really speaks to me, or just a great, creative idea. But the real taste is not there yet.

Unrest leading to (a) movement, leading to action. It doesn’t have to disrupt — an unsatisfying word these days anyway, since business and marketing had their way with it — as long as I am being swept up and carried off on the manifestation of some real, honest, great, gritty, dirty energy.

Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

Bet my brains

Music choices courtesy of my weird, cottony brain:


All that jazz

Music is like a dream. One that I cannot hear.

― Ludwig van Beethoven

This post is all over the place. Like my mind is these days. But it is Friday and on Fridays, after a week of long hours, my love and I like to stay up late and make them count. Netflix and gin-and-tonics and salted peanuts. Filling up the room with evaporated electric liquid. And then, when the movie is done and the light comes up, we lay down our heads, knowing this weekend will be too short, too nice, too delicious and the coming week will be dreadful. Again.

“Well, it’s nice to die of alcoholism, it’s very glorious. But if you write dull shit, it doesn’t do any good what you die from… You see?

In here

Blog posts that jumped up at me in my WordPress.com Reader:

Out there

Stuff I caught floating around on the interwebs:


Ivory ticklings: