I sit here at the cafe on the beach. Sunny skies and crashing surf. A fishing boat bobs languidly on the silver horizon. So calm. Yet my paranoia and angst runs rampant. Why am I so wound up? When I get like this, I want to write. My mind is awash with a million images and words splash across my eyes like a kaleidoscope of fireworks on a summer night. The only recourse is to write my way out of this insidious depression which I battle on a daily basis.
I sit and I scribble notes on a new novel. No title as yet. It is still in it's larval state. However, it will be gritty and raw and harsh. I will not hold back anything. I plan to puke it out onto a page and then smear that mess into some sort of coherent prose. It will be an anthology of several stories of my adventures through the back alleys and underground sewers of American society.
Staring out into this idyllic vista, am I living the dream or have I thrust myself into another fractured nightmare? I think the paranoia is that I still hadn't adjusted to this change. Or it is the tidal wave of nostalgia from previous Tijuana episodes. Have I changed that much? Has my age finally caught up with me? Do I crave the tranquil stability which I had spat at for so many decades? Only last night, I lay in my room pondering the idea at the first of next month packing my shit and moving to Tucson. Why? Hell if I know.
Charles Bukowski once wrote, “If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery - isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.”
Oh, how I envy writers who can turn their misery into beautiful flowers. That is the goal I am attempting to reach with my writing. To excise all the misery and heartache and letdowns and depression from my body and mind onto paper. But, there seems so much. A vast, dusty hall of memories piled to the high, dark roof in uncategorized, dirty, and soiled boxes echoing with the low hum of absolute solidarity. Well, it seems I have my work cut out for me.