WAVING FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF THE RIVER

sometimes i think that all this drinking is not so much fun. i wonder why i do it when i realise that i could stop and i could get out of bed and i could go out and i could actually DO things instead of thinking about doing things.

apart from swigging, i spent a fair bit of today thinking about richard brautigan. i remembered reading ‘a confederate general from big sur’. as i cooked the rainbow trout for dinner i thought about ‘trout fishing in america’. i remembered my copy of ‘the pill versus the springhill mine disaster’ and i wondered where all those books are now. things get lost along the way. i suppose i’m one of those things.

richard brautigan shot himself in the head and was found, weeks later, next to a bottle of whiskey. this really should tell me something. i’m not stupid after all. alcoholism is clearly neither big nor clever, but i really do wonder what else there is. i gravitate to the works of men who enjoy a bit of a swig; i understand everything that they say as if i were reading my own diary and then i look up from the page and find that i’m on the other side of the river to everyone else.

it’s just as pretty on this bank. the company is a tad odder though. but that’s what happens when you get lost. like all them books and things.

music stats: right now, john martyn doing ‘lay it all down’.
grub stats: grilled rainbow trout with new pots and green beans and purple sprouting broccoli.
fag stats: a few. i don’t even like smoking, i don’t know why i bother. it’s even more stupid than drinking loads of swig.
swig stats: ahem, more than is probably sensible.

ho hum.

tomorrow i might try to get back on the other bank; the towpath side. but in the meantime, dear reader, here come the kinks to play ‘days’, just for me.