“Just move on up and keep on wishing Remember your dreams are your only schemes So keep on pushing Take nothing less..”
Curtis Mayfield’s song “Moving On Up”
“Just move on up and keep on wishing Remember your dreams are your only schemes So keep on pushing Take nothing less..”
Curtis Mayfield’s song “Moving On Up”
Really trying to follow Charles Bukowski’s advice, waiting for things to roar out of me, if they’re going to take a long time, or coming out slowly. If what I’m saying sounds foreign to you, read the poem by Bukowski I posted some time ago. It’s called “So You Want To Be A Writer”. It’s not a guide so to speak, but it can be. I was moved by it, and I think I’m following it. That guy was so honest that i feel compelled to follow his way, and from it develop my own way of writing and getting things out of my own head. There is something admirable in writing honestly, and writing what is honest in general, just about honesty. To make it into some sort of twist is the trick, I suppose, to make it work, as artfully as possible. Of course something like that is up to the write entirely. The writer is the creator once the decision is put to paper, or the fingers to the keys.
One of the most inspiring articles I’ve ever read. That’s all.
So, one of, well, two of my friends gave me recommendations to read Women by Charles Bukowski. I’ve taken their advice, and when I was in Canada, I managed to buy that sucker. I like it so far. The prose is simple and direct and he just jumps right in. I know I’m in for a ride. This is part of my December reading month. I’m not writing anything serious for the entire month, unless I feel compelled, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts. I’m just reading. Oh! And posting. I’m back on it.
And part of me continuing these weird posts is just me getting back into the blogging groove. I don’t even like that word “blogging”, but it’s really appropriate because they are really just web-logs. I suppose I like it, in some mild form. I don’t though. I don’t know. This is fun, getting back into it. I’m going to continue to work on the important things, and by the way I’m working on a new laptop, in case you read my eyemiller.tumblr.com post about the letter to my broken thinkpad. Well, this is the new ThinkPad I’m writing on. I love this thing! Anyway, the writing must and will continue. I have a few friends from work (oddly) to thank for it.
Yea,
So I’ve just completed that National Novel Writing Month thing. I’ll revel in the fact that I practically wrote a book in a month for now, and in the following month I’ll let it sit, marinate, and let the thoughts flow, and I’ll begin the editing process. That thing can be something hard and gritty and grueling. I’m down for it though because it’s worth the time and it’s where the magic happens. It’s important to edit and I won’t get into it. You should know that. Amiller out.
Much appreciated this person for posting this, and the honesty is moving with some of the things the writer says. Love yourself.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live.”
~ Charles Bukowski
One cup of coffee between them. He didn’t want anything.
“You okay?”
“Stop asking me if I’m okay.”
She rolled her eyes and breathed in her first sip.
“It’s just…you normally don’t drink coffee.”
She sipped again and smirked.
“You’re still learning things about me.”
The waitress wiped her hands on her apron and let out a sigh at the counter. She came and set down his plate of eggs and bacon, barely cooked and still wet with grease, and her two pancakes.
“You didn’t want butter?”
“Do you see any?”
“Drink some more coffee. You’re being snappy.”
And he forked some two strips of bacon into his gaunt face and chewed and she watched how his jaw and facial muscles worked.
“How’s your food?” She asked.
“I’m trying to enjoy it.”
The waitress was back.
“How’s everything?”
He nodded. She left.
“You couldn’t speak to her? People are so friendly in the Village. Usually women act like that towards women.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know–mean, rude.”
“You know what the difference between us is?”
“Between whom?”
“Men and women.”
She leaned forward and her chin was over the salt shaker mid-table.
“Women like to talk through a meal.”
“That’s not true. You want me to shut up?”
“When I’m eating with my brother, silence.”
“And with me?”
“This is a wonderful example.”
She gritted her teeth and shook salt on his eggs, one of his annoyances so highly ranked it could be documented.
There were no words. Cars outside made intermittent passings, utensils chirped metal on metal and coffee cups met saucers in that little Hudson street diner. The doorbell dinged when a worker came in for his morning coffee.
She only looked at her severed pancakes, and he at his mangled bacon and slowly disappearing eggs, feeling the air of compromise and the once uncomfortable notion of silence transformed.
They swallowed their last bits and the waitress was back.
“All set with everything?”
“Yes, everything was good. See you next Sunday, Georgia.”