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activities recently lost from the history of world
creativity. Writing and painting, for example.
And thought.
In my first few weeks there, I worked hard to
become a more perfect misfit and eventually
learned to do things with pain that, normally,
only ground glass could do with light.
But as soon as the going got a little tough, I
just kicked over a few barstools and threw a few
half-full bottles of vodka through a few
plate-glass windows and full-length mirrors (as
I'd been trained to do) -- and got going.
I'd had it with these fucking assholes anyway, I
realized, and I swore I'd just go back to reality
where I'd sit myself down and write the giant,
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runaway, roller-coaster, best-selling book I knew I still had inside me, called either "A Child's Garden of Despair," or "Sex Is Nothing."
But, instead, I went to hide out among the most wretched people of the earth. These people slept behind telephone and VCR stores, and were so bad off, they didn't even have an ancestral homeland to bitch about getting back from some ancient, eternal enemy. And they didn't have a vicious oppressor they could revolt against and kill, and cut off his head, and stick it on top of a post in the center of town and have their sky-divers swoop by and film it
Book: TABLE OF CONTENTS |