One of the difficult things about being single and basically a monk - which I basically am - is that there is no one to talk to about the small things like what I should read over the summer, or whether or not I should test out the shaved-head-and-beard look, or is this Bukowski poem good or have I just had too much wine?
I’ve long been saying that the little things in life are the most important and the most odd and also the most interesting. I do - if I’m being honest - miss being able to share the little things with someone. I lived with a girl once who let me read to her in bed at night until she fell asleep and I miss that sort of thing. I remember the books I read to her and all of those books are special to me and I can’t imagine that it is simply because for two years I was on a hot streak of good-book-picking.
There is - I’ve realized - some virtue in going through this whole being-alive-thing alone. My life is busy and I crowbar freedom into it as I can and that would be impossible if I had to account for the minutia of someone else’s life. Also, I’m not certain that I would be a very good partner right now and so I’m not anyone’s partner. This is just me being honest because this is a blog that no one reads.
Two things, I guess, are certain though: this is a good Bukowski poem and I have had too much wine.
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