Indian Summer

It waited for me the rain this morning I told him yesterday I am going for a walk in the rain at dawn you are welcome to join me. And in my first few steps fell the first few drops and then more and then harder. In the first few minutes, fully-formed streams flowed beneath my feet that’s how hard the rain fell. Big drops from trees and the smattering of smaller drops on my umbrella it was exactly like the sound of fireworks. But closer, blunter, the sound of mud, of peace.

Bukowski wrote, in Women: « Most people are better at saying things in letters than in conversations, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or novel they become pretentious. » That’s me. That’s what I think. Suddenly his sweet, numerous messages have stopped and I am saddened by the silence. I both embrace and hate how affected I am. By this, by everything. Yes, I have learned to say: « I am sensitive. » But to be a good writer you have to be tough. To not care what other people say, the judgments, the criticisms. « Be prolific » the guy on the subway with the Hemingway tattoo had said to me. But I’m too busy paying the bills. And falling in love with strangers who aren’t falling in love with me.

In seven weeks I will be forty. If Bukowski were still alive he’d be ninety-four. I wish I could have a word with him. Would he objectify me? I’d be devastated if he didn’t. Will I live to ninety-four? Why do I not like the boys who like me and love the ones who don’t?

Sunshine and high twenties all week.

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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