Hodder, man, quit grasping. You almost had it on Monday and then you let it float away again.
"This is the creature I am."
Nothing worth a shit culturally has happened since Syd Barrett went crazy.
"Come to the gym, Bruce!"
Oh no, thanks awfully, it's 1967 in my head, not 1987. If I want exercise I'll take my notebook and a sandwich and go for a walk in the woods.
****** offered me a massage the other day--she's qualified--I would have had to pay--and I told her I couldn't, I'd get a hard-on if she started touching me. "I'm not after anything," she said, laughing in a seizure of embarrassment. "It's not what you'd want out of it that concerns me," I said, pleased with myself for putting it so succinctly.
Is it any wonder no one likes me anymore? Can't go around telling the truth, Hodder.
See, 'cause I read books and write poetry in this philistine age I'm sentimentalised as a nice guy; not someone you'd wanna talk to for very long, but a nice guy. To have a cock that gets hard from time to time, you're supposed to have short greasy hair, a single-figure IQ and a white car with nice shiney hubcaps.
And to be a hippie or whatever else they call that type of being you're supposed to be a Wiccan, do spells, talk to trees, or be the wife of someone who works in a bank, burn incense, collect crystals, listen to long insipid maddening ambient cds. Not be depressed and angry all the time like I am.
I don't fit into anything in a systematic way. I'm just a book-reading, poetry-writing, music-obsessed, pro-animal, pro-union, anti-war, alcohol-imbibing, sporadic-marijuana-smoking, occasionally-meditating, Buddhist-leaning, vegetarian individualist. I wish there was some organisation or philosophy that I could give all my energy to and put all my faith in, but there isn't.
Maybe I mislead people by calling myself anything other than a Bruce.
Like I wrote on the MySpace page yesterday, "If you meet the Buddha, kill him."
If you transported me back to London or Cambridge in 1967 right now, I'd probably still wind up sitting on my own in a Wimpy Bar drinking a lousy cup of coffee, writing shit down in my journal and watching the world float by with a curious combination of envy and disdain.