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There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on. Yet most people are stricken with fear. They fear failure so much that they fail. They are too conditioned, too used to being told what to do. It begins with the family, runs through school and goes into the business world.
You see here, I have a couple of good days at the track and suddenly I know everything.
There is a door open into the night and I am sitting here freezing but I won't get up and close the door because these words are ru
There, I did it. Both of those things. I even put on a sweater. Old writer pust on sweater, sits down, leers into computer screen and writes about life. How holy can we get? And Christ, did you ever wonder how much piss a man pisses in a lifetime? How much he eats, shits? Tons. Horrible. It's best we die and get out of here, we are poisoning everything with what we expel. Damn the dancing girls, they do it too.
No horses tomorrow. Tuesday is an off day.
I think I'll go downstairs and sit with my wife, look at some dumb tv. I'm either at the track or at this machine. Maybe she's glad of it. Hope so. Well, here I go. I'm a good guy, you know? Down the stairs. It must be strange living with me. It's strange to me.
Good night.
10/20/91 12:18 AM
This is one of those nights where there is nothing. Imagine being always like this. Scooped-out. Listless. No light. No dance. Not even any disgust.
This way, one doesn't even have the good sense to commit suicide. The thought doesn't occur.
Get up. Scratch yourself. Drink some water.
I feel like a mongrel dog in July, only it's October.
Still, I've had a good year. Masses of pages sit it the bookcase behind me. Written since Jan. 18. It's like a madman was turned loose. No sane man would write that many pages. It's a sickness.
This year has also been good because I've held back on visitors, more than ever before. I was tricked once though. Some man wrote me from London, said he had taught in Soweto. And when he had read his students some Bukowski many of them had shown a real interest. Black African kids. I liked that. I always like happening from a distance. Later on this man wrote me that he worked for the Guardian and that he'd like to come by and interview me. He asked for my phone number, via mail, and I gave it to him. He phoned me. Sounded all right. We set a date and time and he was on his way. The night and time arrived and there he was. Linda and I set him up with wine and he began. The interview seemed all right, only a little off– hand, odd. He would ask a question, I would answer it and he would begin talking about some experience he had had, relating more or less to the question and the answer I had given. The wine kept pouring and the interview was over. We drank on and he talked about Africa, etc. His accent began changing, alterning, getting, I think, grosser. And he seemed to be getting more and more stupid. He was metamorphosing right in front of us. He got onto sex and stayed there. He liked black girls. I said that we didn't know many, but that Linda had a friend who was a Mexican girl. That did it. He had to meet this Mexican girl. It was a must. We said, well, we didn't know. He kept on and on. We were drinking good wine but his mind acted as if it had been blasted by whiskey. Soon it just got down to „Mexican… Mexican… where is this Mexican girl?“ he had dissolved completely. He was just a sloppy senseless barroom drunk. I told that the night was over. I had to make the track the next day. We moved him toward the door. „Mexican, Mexican…,“ he said.
„You will send us a copy of the interview, yes?“ I asked.
„Of course, of course,“ he said. „Mexican…“ We closed the door and he was gone.
Then we had to drink to rid him from our minds.
That was months ago. No article ever arrived. He had nothing to do with the Guardian. I don't know if he really phoned from London. He was probably phoning from Long Beach. People use the ruse of interview to get in the door. And since there is usually no payment for an interview, anybody can up and knock on the door with a tape recorder and a list of questions. A fellow with a German accent came by one night with his recorder. He made claim to belonging to some German publication that had circulation of millions. He stayed for hours. His questions seemed dumb but I opened up, tried to make it lively and good. He must have gotten 3 hours worth of tape. We drank and drank and drank. Soon his head was falling forward. We drank him under the table and were ready to go further. Really have a ball. His head bent forward on his chest. Little driblets ran out of the corners of his mouth. I shook him. „Hey! Hey! Wake up!“ He came around and looked at me. „I have got to tell you something,“ he said, „I am no interviewer, I just wanted to come and see you.“ There have been times when I was a sucker for photographers too. They claim co
I've always said, a writer's job is to write. If I get burned by these fakes and sons-of-bitches, it's my fault. I'm done with them all. Let them toady up to Elizabeth Taylor.
10/22/91 4:46 PM
The dangerous life. Had to get up at 8 a.m. to feed the cats because the Westec Security man was coming by at 8:30 a.m. to begin the installation of a more sophisticated warning system. (Am I the one who used to sleep on top of garbage cans?) Westec Security arrived at exactly 8:30 a.m. A good sign. I took him around the house pointing out windows, doors, etc. Good, good. We would wire them, we would install glass– breaking detectors, low beams, cross beams, fire sprinklers, etc. Linda came down and asked some questions. She is better at that than I.
I had one thought: „How long will this take?“ „Three days,“ he said.
„Jesus Christ,“ I said. (Two of those days the racetrack would be closed.) So we fumbled around and left him in there, told him we'd be back soon. We had a $100 gift certificate at I. Magnin's somebody had given us for our wedding a