Carol gave me a black rose. I love it. Love the symbolism of it. Not a real black rose because Maka would eat it. An imitation black rose. Nicely done. Looks very cool.
Oh my god Paul is wearing a black rose in his lapel. All the other Beatles have red roses. Paul is dead. From the Magical Mystery Tour album.
Carol didn't give me the rose because she wants me dead. As far as I know. Strangely enough she appears to still love me after all these years of my confusion and stupidity and lack of direction and general insanity. She gave me the rose because she knows I like things that are different. You can have your red rose, your yellow rose, your pink rose; give me the black one. I wish it was small enough that I could wear it in my lapel every day. People would ask me "Joe - what's up with the black rose?" I would reply "Death."
I am obsessed with death. I don't know if obsessed is the right word but I do think about it a lot. In fact I doubt a day goes by when I don't think about death.
I have thought about it in different ways over the years. There was a time when I was OK with becoming a corpse. When our business went down the tubes it felt to me like my life was over. The business was an escape from corporate america for me. When it failed I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't care. I drank recklessly (I'm so much more responsible now). I expected to die and I didn't care.
Death was also appealing when I was an accountant. Why wouldn't it be? I was a creative person trapped in a harshly restrictive world of numbers, spiced with bullshit corporate rules and phony humans who said Yay! at childlike birthday parties in conference rooms. And just think - I was an accountant for decades.
A quick aside. The only accountants I worked with who even came close to being human, worked at Wang labs in the eighties. High pressure, fast paced, long hours we worked our asses off. But after work we drank like Charles Bukowski. And that's when happy hour was really happy hour. Two for one drinks, free food. The table was literally covered with glasses because they would bring you two drinks at a time. No bullshit rules in those days. So every happy accountant had two drinks in front of him at all times. I was pleased to join in the fun.
Anyway, right now death is serving as a kind of motivator for me. Seeds of hope were planted in my brain at the beginning of this year and I have been carefully watering them and nurturing them. I want my life. I want my independence. I have never had either of these.
I am 57 years old. Such a frightening number. Not old. Not young. But far enough along the road of life to make me think. The lifespan for men in america is somewhere around 75. Think about that. That gives me 18 years. christ. I have lived 57 years and I only have 18 left? That is sobering. And that's assuming I make it that far. The amount of booze and drugs I have consumed in my lifetime, in conjunction with the stress induced by endless self-loathing, anxiety and fear, make it seem more likely that I will drop dead before I get to the end of this sentence.
So every day right now I try to do good stuff that will get me what I want. And every day is another huge step towards the grave. They used to be small steps; now each day is so large it blocks out the sun. And when it's gone I twinge a little bit and pray for enough time to prove myself.
I am exercising (trying to fool my body). I have cut down on the booze (although Carol would say I'm full of shit). I am writing almost every day because therein lies my ticket to independence. My only ticket to independence. If I don't make it as a writer I will have wasted a life. But of course I am not getting anywhere either. Haven't made a dime from it, not even sure how to go about it. But I have hope and determination and an inkling of talent and a diseased brain. These are good ingredients.
Death hangs out there. If I was a good enough writer, I would write it away and live forever. Or maybe become a vampire. I love that concept. An eternal life of power and intelligence, elegance and dark. At least that's the way I see it. Not sure about the blood sucking part though. I am dainty; I don't like to get anything on my face.
So death is out there and it's not going away. It stares me in the face every morning and says goodnight every night. I'm trying to hold it off. I have so much to prove.
I like my black rose. I love my black rose. I'm going to install it in my writing room and look at it every day for inspiration. Maybe I'll kiss it from time to time. Experience the kiss of death up close and personal, and then walk away. To a glass of whiskey. And my dreams.
Oh my god Paul is wearing a black rose in his lapel. All the other Beatles have red roses. Paul is dead. From the Magical Mystery Tour album.
Carol didn't give me the rose because she wants me dead. As far as I know. Strangely enough she appears to still love me after all these years of my confusion and stupidity and lack of direction and general insanity. She gave me the rose because she knows I like things that are different. You can have your red rose, your yellow rose, your pink rose; give me the black one. I wish it was small enough that I could wear it in my lapel every day. People would ask me "Joe - what's up with the black rose?" I would reply "Death."
I am obsessed with death. I don't know if obsessed is the right word but I do think about it a lot. In fact I doubt a day goes by when I don't think about death.
I have thought about it in different ways over the years. There was a time when I was OK with becoming a corpse. When our business went down the tubes it felt to me like my life was over. The business was an escape from corporate america for me. When it failed I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't care. I drank recklessly (I'm so much more responsible now). I expected to die and I didn't care.
Death was also appealing when I was an accountant. Why wouldn't it be? I was a creative person trapped in a harshly restrictive world of numbers, spiced with bullshit corporate rules and phony humans who said Yay! at childlike birthday parties in conference rooms. And just think - I was an accountant for decades.
A quick aside. The only accountants I worked with who even came close to being human, worked at Wang labs in the eighties. High pressure, fast paced, long hours we worked our asses off. But after work we drank like Charles Bukowski. And that's when happy hour was really happy hour. Two for one drinks, free food. The table was literally covered with glasses because they would bring you two drinks at a time. No bullshit rules in those days. So every happy accountant had two drinks in front of him at all times. I was pleased to join in the fun.
Anyway, right now death is serving as a kind of motivator for me. Seeds of hope were planted in my brain at the beginning of this year and I have been carefully watering them and nurturing them. I want my life. I want my independence. I have never had either of these.
I am 57 years old. Such a frightening number. Not old. Not young. But far enough along the road of life to make me think. The lifespan for men in america is somewhere around 75. Think about that. That gives me 18 years. christ. I have lived 57 years and I only have 18 left? That is sobering. And that's assuming I make it that far. The amount of booze and drugs I have consumed in my lifetime, in conjunction with the stress induced by endless self-loathing, anxiety and fear, make it seem more likely that I will drop dead before I get to the end of this sentence.
So every day right now I try to do good stuff that will get me what I want. And every day is another huge step towards the grave. They used to be small steps; now each day is so large it blocks out the sun. And when it's gone I twinge a little bit and pray for enough time to prove myself.
I am exercising (trying to fool my body). I have cut down on the booze (although Carol would say I'm full of shit). I am writing almost every day because therein lies my ticket to independence. My only ticket to independence. If I don't make it as a writer I will have wasted a life. But of course I am not getting anywhere either. Haven't made a dime from it, not even sure how to go about it. But I have hope and determination and an inkling of talent and a diseased brain. These are good ingredients.
Death hangs out there. If I was a good enough writer, I would write it away and live forever. Or maybe become a vampire. I love that concept. An eternal life of power and intelligence, elegance and dark. At least that's the way I see it. Not sure about the blood sucking part though. I am dainty; I don't like to get anything on my face.
So death is out there and it's not going away. It stares me in the face every morning and says goodnight every night. I'm trying to hold it off. I have so much to prove.
I like my black rose. I love my black rose. I'm going to install it in my writing room and look at it every day for inspiration. Maybe I'll kiss it from time to time. Experience the kiss of death up close and personal, and then walk away. To a glass of whiskey. And my dreams.
No comments:
Post a Comment