In an email earlier today, Kevin Hayden of
The American Street asked me if I'd be willing to get into a discussion with him about blogging, writing and why we do it. This is an exercise a number of bloggers are having lately, either with themselves, their readers or other bloggers. Like most of us, Kevin is trying to figure out how to find some balance in his life, one which seems to want more time at the keyboard AND more time away from the Internet. I sympathize, because I haven't figured it out yet, either.
As usual, I'm on the Sunday roster at TAS, so you can see a different side of my writing and interests there today. I'm also hoping to get a couple of pieces up at The Village Gate by early in the week.
Anywho, when someone asks me a question, as per usual, I went digging around on the Internets to see if someone has come up with a better answer than the one I gave Kevin. As per usual, someone had. This is the answer by Buddhist Beat poet Charles Bukowski.
one thirty-six a.m.
I laugh sometimes when I think about
say
Céline at a typewriter
or Dostoevsky...
or Hamsun...
ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes,
ordinary men with hair on their heads
sitting there typing words
while having difficulties with life
while being puzzled almost to madness.
Dostoevsky gets up
he leaves the machine to piss,
comes back
drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
the casino and
the roulette wheel.
Céline stops, gets up, walks to the
window, looks out, thinks, my last patient
died today, I won't have to make any more
visits there.
when I saw him last
he paid his doctor bill;
it's those who don't pay their bills,
they live on and on.
Céline walks back, sits down at the
machine
is still for a good two minutes
then begins to type.
Hamsun stands over his machine thinking,
I wonder if they are going to believe
all these things I write?
he sits down, begins to type.
he doesn't know what a writer's block
is:
he's a prolific son-of-a-bitch
damn near as magnificent as
the sun.
he types away.
and I laugh
not out loud
but all up and down these walls, these
dirty yellow and blue walls
my white cat asleep on the
table
hiding his eyes from the
light.
he's not alone tonight
and neither am
I.