I miss him
But I don’t
I want him back
But I don’t
I still “love” him
But I shouldn’t
I know he has moved on
And I should too
I can’t change the past
But I want to
I shouldn’t have these feelings for him
Yet I still do
He finally stepped up and grew
He found someone nice and new
I’m happy he is in a good place
With her bringing a smile to his face
I guess I have no more reason to hold on
It’s over, we’re done, he’s really gone.
I hope she’s good to him
I hope they’re great on a whim
As long as they are happy together
Then I’m supportive he’s met her
I want him happy
Now he is
I want hard truth
So here it is
He moved on
I’m no longer his
Let me yell in pain instead of watch you die. (I’m dead either way.)
Let me let me bleed and cry out, while you shout for help. (At least one of us will heal.)
Let me hold you on my shoulder while you cry. (Because I can’t just walk by.)
Let me wipe away your tears until your dry. (I’ll stay, no matter where we are.)
Let me feel you pain and not just your tears. (Because some things can’t just go away.)
Let me help you confront all you fears. (Because sometimes you can’t believe everything you hear.)
Let me watch as you succeed. (Two steps behind, ready to catch you if you fall.)
Let me smile while I see you laugh. (Because it’s the reason I can’t stop.)
Let me know when you need help. (So you don’t have to do this by yourself.)
Let me stay close to you. (Even though I know we’re through.)
Let me watch over you. (Because I still care about you.)
Let me watch as you move on. (Because you won’t stay there for long.)
Let me know that your ok. (Because I know I have to go away.)
Let me fight while you start over. (Because if I don’t I’ll just be some mindless soldier.)
Let me know that you had some crazy adventure and didn’t end up on a bench somewhere. (Tell me everything I ever did meant something.)
Let me know that you were happy, because I love you. Even if this sounds sappy.
was i supposed to love you
simply because you fancied yourself
my white knight in shining armor,
saving me from things that
i didn’t need rescuing from
until you came along,
tore my life into ruins,
all to call yourself a hero
for fixing what you broke
in the first place?
was i supposed to love you
simply because you told me
you wanted me to be yours,
like a toy or a handful of sweets-
never mind the fact that
i need no one to claim me,
never mind the fact that
i am not something to be owned?
was i supposed to love you?
because i’m not sorry that i don’t.
from the journals i always write in but never seem to finish
This is where we’re at: linked by
some invisible thing so when
we’re together it’s like a dance;
we slouch at the same angle
against the couch and sigh in
unison. Share a glass of water.
At night we flip back and forth
holding each other without
waking up. I hope we’re never
apart but if we are I know you’ll
find yourself laughing at a joke
I tell to someone else in a room
across the city and I’ll swear I
can hear the sound of you.
With hair that is far too curly.
But the way the sunlight shines through it and across my hands makes me want to build you a home. Constructed with the walls of my heart.
You have opened up my windows and let life flood every cobwebbed corner.
With hands like silk that wrap around my body and cocoon me in a glass house.
One where I can still see the storm but do not have to face it with fears of being struck down.
I could count my heartbeat by your lifeline. I survive on the breath you are finished with.
With lips like black coffee.
An addiction that I cannot get through the day without.
Wake me up, my love.
Settle me down, my life.
With eyes like fire opal that I lose my sense of time in.
Oh the number of people that have tried to contain you into one word.
Let me drown myself with your love. I have been too long in a twisted existence.
I have been too long running from the bright at base of your chest.
the sand at the beach tonight is melting under my feet; sunset and sunrise and midnight in a breeze; all the world’s a cocktail of wildflowers and diamonds, sunbeams and honey, love fluttering in the winds like rose petals, like butterfly kisses, like the way you smile, all sea salt and forget-me-nots and blue in the shades of eternity
forgive me, this all seems so very fairytale, and we are much less than happily ever after (or maybe we are more than the stories could ever dream) forgive me, i just wanted to map the world upon your skin, the pacific ebbing and flowing down your spine and the atlantic a glow of sunlight in your smile; the amazon bright on your fingertips and the sahara buried deep in your collarbone, a story for our lonely starshine dreams
i think there are times when even the northern lights grow envious of the sea
Hi, I’m a guy
I suppose I should specify
I don’t have male parts between my legs and I have bags of fat and milk on my chest
But believe me I’m a guy
I know it in my heart and soul
Hi, I’m a guy
And no I don’t fit into standards of masculinity
I don’t have girls hanging off of me
I don’t smell of manly mixtures of chemicals
I don’t have bulging muscles nor a “huge package”
But I’m a guy, believe me when I say
Hi, I’m a guy
And yes I wear lipstick
And I spend money on various shades
I have a thing for reds and purples
To match my not very flawless skin
I also wear eyeliner and concern myself with wings
Please believe me, I’m a guy
Why can’t you take my word for it?
Why am I not a man because I don’t fit your description?
Not all men have a penis and not all men wear suits
Some have a vagina and like to wear a dress or two
Hi, I’m a guy
A strong growing boy
And I am not going to bow down
Or hang my head
I am a guy
Whether you like it or not
tell me of storyborn pirates with bones formed in the shape of a noose.
what have they done to your eyes to transform them into scars?
those decaying sides weren’t meant to be beautiful before
they wrote you upon cracked lips and fairytales.
villains such as you were only meant to be a blade,
donning clipped stars for stitches
and burns as atlases upon skin for all the places you’ve been.
heroes aren’t bred with such calluses as your own,
you’ll graze a queen’s palm and tear her bone,
leave this world to its marrow.
they don’t know the writing of their grave
or all the blood a body can contain.
you’ve tried to save those boys,
you get that,
and that is all,
but heroes don’t sleep with a gun
or gaze to a sea and wonder how many they left to storms.
even in the kindest of stories, pirates don’t save kingdoms and they don’t save themselves. ( m.m. )
Now 66 years old, Bukowski has written 32 books of poetry, 5 collections of short stories and 4 novels. His best-known works are Ham on Rye, Women, Hot Water Music, South of No North, Post Office, Tales Of Ordinary Madness, War All The Time and Love is a Dog From Hell. His latest collection of poems is entitled You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense.
This fall a film made from his first screenplay, Barfly, will open around the country. Starring Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway, directed by Barbet Schroeder and presented by Francis Ford Coppola, the film is an autobiographical account of Bukowski’s early years as a writer. Barfly’s two main characters, Henry and Wanda, are “immersed in an effort to escape the embalmed method of living which grips most of American society,” according to Bukowski. “It is that fearful desire to continue to exist at any cost, their lives or anybody else’s. Henry and Wanda refuse to accept the living death of acquiescence. This film is a focus on their brave madness.”
We asked actor and poet Sean Penn to visit Bukowski and focus on the brave madness of the great man himself.
Charles Bukowski was born in Andernach, Germany, in 1920. At the age of three he was brought to the United States and raised in Los Angeles. He currently resides in San Pedro, California, with his wife, Linda. A notorious boozer, brawler and womanizer, both Genet and Sartre called him “the best poet in America,” but his friends call him Hank.
Don’t do too much bar stuff anymore. Got that out of my system. Now when I walk into a bar, I almost gag. I’ve seen so many of them, it’s just too fuckin’ much – that stuff’s for when you’re younger, you know, and you like to duke it with a guy, you know you play that macho shit – try to pick up broads – at my age, I don’t need all that. Nowadays, I just go into bars to piss. Too many years in the bar. It just got so bad, that I’d walk into a bar, I’d walk through the door and I’d start to puke.
Alcohol is probably one of the greatest things to arrive upon the earth – alongside of me. Yes…these are two of the greatest arrivals upon the surface of the earth. So…we get along. It is ultimately destructive to most people. I’m just one apart from that. I do all of my creative work while I’m intoxicated. Even with women, you know, I’ve always been reticent in the love-making act, so alcohol has allowed me, sexually, to be more free. It’s a release, because basically I am a shy, withdrawn person, and alcohol allows me to be this hero, striding through space and time, doing all these daring things…So I like it…yeah.
I like to smoke. Smoke and alcohol counterbalance each other. I used to wake up from drinking, you know, and you smoke so much, both your hands are yellow, see, like you’ve got gloves on…almost brown…and you say, “Oh, shit…what do my lungs look like? Oh Jesus!”
The best feeling is when you whip a guy you’re not supposed to whip. I got into it with a guy one time, he was giving me a lot of lip. I said, “Okay. Let’s go.” He was no problem at all – I whipped him easy. He was laying there on the ground. He’s got a bloody nose, the whole works. He says, “Jesus, you move slow, man. I thought you’d be easy – the goddamn fight started – I couldn’t see your hands anymore, you were so fucking fast. What happened?” I said, “I don’t know, man. That’s just the way it goes.” You save it. You save it for the moment.
My cat, Beeker, is a fighter. He gets mauled up a bit sometimes, but he’s always the winner. I taught him it all, you know…lead with the left, set up the right.
Having a bunch of cats around is good. If you’re feeling bad, you just look at the cats, you’ll feel better, because they know that everything is, just as it is. There’s nothing to get excited about. They just know. They’re saviors. The more cats you have, the longer you live. If you have a hundred cats, you’ll live ten times longer than if you have ten. Someday this will be discovered, and people will have a thousand cats and live forever. It’s truly ridiculous.
ON WOMEN AND SEX:
I call ‘em complaining machines. Things are never right with a guy to them. And man, when you throw that hysteria in there…forget it. I gotta get out, get in the car, and go. Anywhere. Get a cup of coffee somewhere. Anywhere. Anything but another woman. I guess they’re just built different, right? (He’s on a roll now.) The hysteria starts…they’re gone. You go to leave, they don’t understand. (In a high woman’s screech:) “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” “I’m getting the hell out of here, baby!” They think I’m a woman hater, but I’m not. A lot of it is word of mouth. They just hear “Bukowski’s a male-chauvinist pig,” but they don’t check the source. Sure I make women look bad sometimes, but I make men look bad too. I make myself look bad. If I really think it’s bad, I say it’s bad – man, woman, child, dog. The women are so touchy, they think they’re being singled out. That’s their problem.
THE FIRST ONE:
Fuckin’ the first one was the strangest – I didn’t know – she taught me how to eat pussy and all these fucking things. I didn’t know anything. She said, “You know, Hank, you’re a great writer, but you don’t know a damn thing about women!” “What do you mean? I’ve fucked a lot of women.” “No, you don’t know. Let me teach you some things.” I said, “Okay.” She said, “You’re a good student, man. You catch on right away.” That’s all – (He got a little embarrassed. Not by the specifics, but rather by the sentimentality of the reminiscence.) But all that eatin’ pussy shit can get kinda subservient. I like to please them, but…It’s all overrated, man. Sex is only a great thing if you’re not getting any.
ON SEX BEFORE AIDS (AND HIS MARRIAGE):
I just used to pop in and out of those sheets. I don’t know, it was kind of a trance, a fuck trance. I’d just kinda fuck, and fuck (laughs)… I did! (laughs)
And the women, you know, you’d say a few words, and you just grab 'em by the wrist, “Come on, baby.” Lead 'em in the bedroom and fuck 'em. And they’d go with it, man. Once you get in that rhythm, man, you’d just go. There are a lot of lonely women out there, man. They look good, they just don’t connect. They’re sitting there all alone, going to work, coming home…it’s a big thing for 'em to have some guy pop 'em. And if he sits around, drinks and talks, you know, it’s entertainment. It was all right…and I was lucky. Modern women…they don’t sew your pockets…forget that.
I wrote a short story from the viewpoint of a rapist who raped a little girl. So people accused me. I was interviewed. They’d say, “You like to rape little girls?” I said, “Of course not. I’m photographing life.” I’ve gotten in trouble with a lot of my shit. On the other hand, trouble sells some books. But, bottom line, when I write, it’s for me. (He draws a deep drag off his cigarette.) It’s like this. The “drag” is for me, the ash is for the tray… that’s publication.
I never write in the daytime. It’s like running through the shopping mall with your clothes off. Everybody can see you. At night…that’s when you pull the tricks…magic.
I always remember the schoolyards in grammar school, when the word “poet” or “poetry” came up, all the little guys would laugh and mock it. I can see why, because it’s a fake product. It’s been fake and snobbish and inbred for centuries. It’s over-delicate. It’s over-precious. It’s a bunch of trash. Poetry for the centuries is almost total trash. It’s a con, a fake.
There have been a very few good poets, don’t mistake me. There’s a Chinese poet called Li Po. He could put more feeling, realism, and passion in four or five simple lines than most poets can in the twelve or fourteen pages of their shit. And he drank wine too. He used to set his poems on fire, sail down the river, and drink wine. The emperors loved him, because they could understand what he was saying…but, of course, he only burned his bad poems. (laughs)
What I’ve tried to do, if you’ll pardon me, is bring in the factory-workers aspect of life…the screaming wife when he comes home from work. The basic realities of the everyman existence…something seldom mentioned in the poetry of the centuries. Just put me down as saying that the poetry of the centuries is shit. It’s shameful.
The first time I read Celine, I went to bed with a big box of Ritz crackers. I started reading him and eating these Ritz crackers, and laughing, and eating the Ritz crackers. I read the whole novel straight through. And the box of Ritz was empty, man. And I got up and drank water, man. You should’ve seen me. I couldn’t move. That’s what a good writer will do to you. He’ll damn near kill you…a bad writer will too.
He’s unreadable and overrated. But people don’t want to hear that. You see, you cannot attack shrines. Shakespeare is embedded through the centuries. You can say “So-and-so is a lousy actor!” But you can’t say Shakespeare is shit. The longer something is around, snobs begin to attach themselves to it, like suckerfish. When snobs feel something is safe…they attach. The moment you tell them the truth, they go wild. They can’t handle it. It’s attacking their own thought process. They disgust me.
ON HIS FAVORITE READING MATERIAL:
I read in The National Enquirer, “Is your husband homosexual?” Linda had said to me, “You have a voice like a fag!” I said, “Oh, yeah. I always wondered.” (laughs) This article says, “Does he pull his eyebrows out?” I thought, shit! I do that all the time. Now I know what I am. I pull my eyebrows out…I’m a fag! Okay. It’s nice for The National Enquirer to tell me what I am.
ON HUMOR AND DEATH:
There’s very little. About the last best humorist was a guy called James Thurber. But his humor was so great, they had to overlook it. Now, this guy was what you call a psychologist/psychiatrist of the ages. He had the man/woman thing – you know, people seeing things. He was a cure-all. His humor was so real, you almost have to scream out your laughter in a frantic release. Outside of Thurber, I can’t think of anybody…I’ve got a little touch of it…but not like he did. What I’ve got I don’t really call humor. I’d call it…“a comic edge.” I’m almost hooked on the comic edge. No matter what happens…it’s ludicrous. Almost everything is ludicrous. You know, we shit every day. That’s ludicrous. Don’t you think? We have to keep pissing, putting food in our mouths, wax comes in our ears, hair? We have to scratch ourselves. Really ugly and dumb, you know? Tits are useless, unless…
You know, we’re monstrosities. If we could really see this, we could love ourselves…realize how ridiculous we are, with our intestines wound around, shit slowly running through as we look each other in the eyes and say “I love you,” our stuff is carbonizing, turning into shit, and we never fart near each other. It all has a comic edge…
And then we die. But, death has not earned us. It hasn’t shown any credentials – we’ve shown all the credentials. With birth, have we earned life? Not really, but we’re sure caught with the fucker…I resent it. I resent death. I resent life. I resent being caught between the two. You know how many times I’ve tried suicide? (Linda asks, “Tried?”) Give me time, I’m only 66 years old. Still working at it.
When you have a suicide complex, nothing bothers you…except losing at the track. Somehow that bothers you. Why is that?…Because you’re using your mind [at the track] not your heart.
I never rode a horse.
I’m not so interested in the horse, as in the process of being right and wrong…selectively.
ON THE TRACK:
I tried to make my living at the track for a while. It’s painful. It’s exhilarating. Everything is on the line – the rent – everything. But, you tend to be too cautious…it’s not the same.
One time I was sitting way down at the curve. There were twelve horses in the race and they all got bunched together. It looked like a big charge. All I saw were these big horses’ asses going up and down. They looked wild. I looked at those horse asses and I thought, “This is madness, this is total madness!” But then you have other days where you win four or five hundred dollars, you’ve won eight or nine races in a row, you feel like God, you know everything. It all fits together.
(Then to me:)
CB: All your days aren’t good, are they? SP: No. CB: Some of them good? SP: Yeah. CB: Many of them? SP: Yeah. (After a pause, the laughter of surprise) CB: I thought you were going to say “Just a few…” How disappointing!
I don’t look too much at people. It’s disturbing. They say if you look too much at someone, you start to look like them. Poor Linda.
People, mostly, I can do without. They don’t fill me, they empty me. I respect no man. I have a problem that way…I’m lying, but believe me, it’s true.
The valet at the track is okay. Sometimes, I’m leaving the track and he’ll say, “Well, how you doing, man?” I’ll say, “Shit, I’m ready to go for the jugular…throw up the white flag, man. I’ve had it.” He’ll say, “Oh no! Come on, man! I’ll tell you what. Let’s go out tonight, get drunk. We’ll kick some ass, and suck pussy.” I’ll say, “Frank, let me consider that.” He’ll say, “You know, the worse it gets, the wiser I get.” I’ll say, “You must be a pretty wise man, Frank.” He’ll say, “You know it’s a good thing you and I didn’t meet when we were younger.” I’ll say, “Yeah, I know what you’re going to say, Frank. We’d both be in San Quentin.” “Right!” he says.
ON BEING RECOGNIZED AT THE TRACK:
The other day I’m sitting there and I feel them staring at me. I know what’s coming, so I get up to move, you know? And he says, “Excuse me?” And I say, “Yes, what is it!” He says, “Are you Bukowski?” I say, “No!” He says, “I guess people ask you that all the time, don’t they?” And I say, “Yes!” and I walked away. You know, we’ve discussed this before. There’s nothing like privacy. You know, I like people. It’s nice that they might like my books and all that…but I’m not the book, see? I’m the guy who wrote it, but I don’t want them to come up and throw roses on me or anything. I want them to let me breathe. They wanna hang out with me. They figure I’ll bring some whores, wild music, and I’m gonna slug somebody…you know? They read the stories! Shit, these things happened 20 to 30 years ago, baby!
It’s a destructor. It’s the whore, the bitch, the destructor of all time. I’ve got it the sweetest because I’m famous in Europe and unknown here. I’m one of the most fortunate men around. I’m a lucky dog. Fame is really terrible. It is a measure on a scale of the common denominator, minds working on a low level. It’s worthless. A select audience is much better.
I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room – I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful – awful beyond all – but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, “The strongest men are the most alone.” I’ve never thought, “Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, and I’ll feel good.” No, that won’t help. You know the typical crowd, “Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?” Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more wine!
This is very important – to take leisure time. Pace is the essence. Without stopping entirely and doing nothing at all for great periods, you’re gonna lose everything. Whether you’re an actor, anything, a housewife…there has to be great pauses between highs, where you do nothing at all. You just lay on a bed and stare at the ceiling. This is very, very important…just to do nothing at all, very, very important. And how many people do this in modern society? Very few. That’s why they’re all totally mad, frustrated, angry and hateful. ln the old days, before I was married, or knew a lot of women, I would just pull down all the shades and go to bed for three or four days. I’d get up to shit. I’d eat a can of beans, go back to bed, just stay there for three or four days. Then I’d put on my clothes and I’d walk outside, and the sunlight was brilliant, and the sounds were great. I felt powerful, like a recharged battery. But you know the first bring-down? The first human face I saw on the sidewalk, I lost half my charge right there. This monstrous, blank, dumb, unfeeling face, charged up with capitalism – the “grind.” And you went “Oooh! That took half away.” But it was still worth it, I had half left. So, yeah, leisure. And I don’t mean having profound thoughts. I mean having no thoughts at all. Without thoughts of progress, without any self-thoughts of trying to further yourself. Just…like a slug. It’s beautiful.
There is no such thing as beauty, especially in the human face…what we call the physiognomy. It’s all a mathematical and imagined alignment of features. Like, if the nose doesn’t stick out too much, the sides are in fashion, if the earlobes aren’t too large, if the hair is long…It’s kind of a mirage of generalization. People think of certain faces as beautiful, but, truly, in the final measure, they are not. It’s a mathematical equation of zero. “True beauty” comes, of course, of character. Not through how the eyebrows are shaped. So many women that I’m told are beautiful…hell, it’s like looking into a soup bowl.
There’s no such thing as ugliness. There is a thing called deformity, but outward “ugliness” does not exist…I have spoken.
ONCE UPON A TIME:
It was wintertime. I was starving to death trying to be a writer in New York. I hadn’t eaten for three or four days. So, I finally said, “I’m gonna have a big bag of popcorn.” And God, I hadn’t tasted food for so long, it was so good. Each kernel, you know, each one was like a steak! I chewed and it would just drop into my poor stomach. My stomach would say, “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!” I was in heaven, just walking along, and two guys happened by, and one said to the other, “Jesus Christ!” The other one said, “What was it?” “Did you see that guy eating popcorn? God, it was awful!” And so I couldn’t enjoy the rest of the popcorn. I thought; what do you mean, “it was awful?” I’m in heaven here. I guess I was kinda dirty. They can always tell a fucked-up guy.
ON THE PRESS:
I kind of like being attacked. “Bukowski’s disgusting!” That makes me smile, you know, I like it. “Oh, he’s a horrible writer!” I smile some more. I kind of feed on that. It’s when a guy tells me, “Hey, you know, they’re teaching you at such and such a university,” my mouth drops. I don’t know…to be too much accepted is terrifying. You feel you’ve done something wrong.
I enjoy the bad things that are said about me. It enhances [book] sales and makes me feel evil. I don’t like to feel good 'cause I am good. But evil? Yes. It gives me another dimension. (Bringing up the pinky finger of his left hand…) Did you ever see this finger? (The finger seems paralyzed in a downward “L” configuration.) I broke it, drunk one night. Don’t know how, but…I guess it just didn’t set right. But, it works just fine for the “a” key (on his typewriter) and…what the hell…it adds to my character. See, now I’ve got character and dimension. (He laughs.)
Most so-called brave people lack imagination. As though they can’t conceive of what would happen if something went wrong. The truly brave overcome their imagination and do what they have to do.
I don’t know a thing about it. (He laughs)
I think violence is often misinterpreted. Certain violence is needed. There is, in all of us, an energy that demands an outlet. I think that if the energy is constrained, we go mad. The ultimate peacefulness we all desire is not a desirable area. Somehow in our construction, it is not meant to be. This is why I like to see boxing matches, and why, in my younger days, I’d like to duke it in back alleys. “Expulsion of energy with honor,” is sometimes called violence. There is “interesting madness” and “disgusting madness.” There are good and bad forms of violence. So, in fact…it’s a loose term. Let it not be too much at the expense of others, and it’s okay.
ON PHYSICAL PAIN:
When I was a kid, they used to drill me. I had these big boils. You toughen up to physical pain. When I was in General Hospital they were drilling away, and a guy walked in, and he said, “I never saw anyone go under the needle that cool.” That’s not bravery – if you get enough physical pain, you relent – it’s a process, an adjustment.
Mental pain can’t be adjusted to. Keep me away from it.
What do psychiatric patients get? They get a bill.
I think the problem between the psychiatrist and the patient is that the psychiatrist goes by the book, while the patient arrives because of what life has done to him or her. And even though the book may have certain insights, the pages are always the same in the book, and, each patient is a little bit different. There are many more individual problems than pages. Get it? There are too many mad people to do it by saying, “dollars per hour, when this bell rings, you’re finished.” That alone will drive any near-mad person to madness. They’ve just started to open up and feel good, when the shrink says, “Nurse, make the next appointment,” and they’ve lost track of the price, which is also abnormal. It’s all too stinking worldly. The guy is out to take your ass. He’s not out to cure you. He wants his money. When the bell rings, bring in the next “nut.” Now the sensitive “nut” will realize when that bell rings, he’s being fucked. There’s no time limit to curing madness, and there’s no bills for it either. Most psychiatrists I’ve seen look a little close to the edge themselves. But they’re too comfortable…I think they’re all too comfortable. I think a patient wants to see a little madness, not too much. Ahhhh! (bored) PSYCHIATRISTS ARE TOTALLY USELESS! Next question?
Faith is all right for those who have it. Just don’t load it on me. I have more faith in my plumber than I do in the eternal being. Plumbers do a good job. They keep the shit flowing.
I’ve always been accused of being a cynic. I think cynicism is sour grapes. I think cynicism is a weakness. It’s saying “everything is wrong! EVERYTHING IS WRONG!” You know? “This is not right! That is not right!” Cynicism is the weakness that keeps one from being able to adjust to what is occurring at the moment. Yes, cynicism is definiteiy a weakness, just as optimism is. “The sun is shining, the birds are singing – so smile.” That’s bullshit too. The truth lies somewhere in between. What is, just is. So you’re not ready to handle it…too bad.
ON CONVENTIONAL MORALITY:
There may not be a hell, but those who judge may create one. I think people are over-taught. They are over-taught everything. You have to find out by what happens to you, how you will react. I’ll have to use a strange term here…“good.” I don’t know where it comes from, but I feel that there’s an ultimate strain of goodness born in each of us. I don’t believe in God, but I believe in this “goodness” like a tube running through our bodies. It can be nurtured. It’s always magic, when on a freeway packed with traffic, a stranger makes room for you to change lanes…it gives you hope.
ON BEING INTERVIEWED:
It’s almost like being caught in the corner. It’s embarrassing. So, I don’t always tell the total truth. I like to play around and jest a bit, so I do give out some misinformation just for the sake of entertainment and bullshit. So if you want to know about me, never read an interview. Ignore this one.
I was literally just trying 2 take a shower when a song gave me nurseychowder thoughts, and, well, i’m so sorry, but,
- nursey’s probably super affectionate and chowder doesn’t mind at all. except when nursey macks on him in front of the entire hockey team (“jeez, nursey!!!! not in front of jack!”)
- they really do have a good dynamic because nursey likes chowder’s eagerness to everything; it’s really refreshing. and chowder loves how nursey really, actually listens to him.
- nursey’s moms (yes, 2 moms, yes, my gay little hands are taking everything they can grab) love chowder. like. l o v e. if nursey is busy w something and they call, him answering is a perfect alternative and they’ll talk for 20 minutes, or until chowder says something embarrassing about nursey and he loses phone privileges
- they’re always tired and yawning, yet somehow always excited and getting caught messing around on the ice
- nursey usually instigates it. chowder’s just trying to get through practice without him dropping a puck down his jersey.
- cute cuddly naps together on the green couch. poor bitty is always disgusted but it’s still cute
- nursey’s totally written poems for chowder and chowder’s tried to do the same but they were a little… they aren’t the best,, but nursey keeps every single one
- also chowder wearing nursey’s sweatshirts and nursey leaving cheesy love notes in the pocket for him to find, he would totally do that he’s such a hopeless romantic I fuckin love it
- they probably text and face time and snapchat constantly over break. nursey sends a pic of cooking dinner w his moms, chowder sends a video of his sisters singing in the car ride to in n out, nursey sends a vid of his cat attacking his leg, chowder sends a pic of his meal, and so it goes
- speaking of which his sisters love nursey and have jokingly offered to drive them to las vegas to get married more than once
- nursey loves being taller than chowder and gives him piggy backs pretty often
- seriously a force to be reckoned with during games, but at the same time nurse would totally pull up chowder’s helmet to kiss him after a win still on the ice and chowder would die