The Sunchoke

there’s no question: i could not live like Bukowski. Years of isolation, prowling the shelves at bars and public libraries. real aloneness and not a phase. I need. meaning, friends, morning time sun.

But then, i can’t get away from him either. the jobs that come and go, even not getting fired or walking out. mentally leaving, checking out for a few months. seeing the crazy people who are well-dressed and disciplined. the movements that fade out into abstraction because the thing concret is at best monstrous or more likely simply ineffective and shallow. today i walked up the hill to Rosenstiel feeling thrown back into everyday life. what is everyday life? vegetative existence, not necessarily lacking computations, but without decisions, or with a certain plane of decision that is parallel to its support. Everyday life, with one and only one decision: the decision to continue.