I am practicing extreme self care. I went to the chiropractor which is $100 hard cash because I don’t have health insurance. It’s like a drug deal. I also went running and then took myself to a wine bar in Brooklyn Heights, one of my favorite neighborhoods to go write. The bar is cute. It has a romantic setting with candles & swank (cuz valentine’s and all). Here’s what I’m enjoying. All of it. Sinatra is playing. Thank God !!!! Lately, the hipster bars that I venture to play AWFUL neo-punk garbage. After an hour I’m irritated. I like jazz motherfuckers ok. Straight on, 1950’s, big band, lush orchestrations with some horns and someone who can sing. <----(Wow that makes me sound old). A lot of people don’t like Sinatra, but they never heard him sing It Might As Well Be Spring or The Night We Called It A Day, or any of those torch songs that he recorded with Capital. Maybe I should stop writing. Perhaps writing is just a series of thoughts that when put together it’s like sharing. Ew. Is that what writing is? That’s what my writing is lately. Would I rather write like Daschiell Hammett? Yes. But perhaps at this time, my writing is what needs to happen right now for my own personal growth. I just cringed that I wrote that. It’s as if I’m trying to evolve, but I’m in utter resistance to it all. The tough guy/artist in me wants to go “fuck it man, drink some vodka and read Kerouac - don’t be so serious.” This is true, but writing about exactly what is going on in my life, it turns out, is sort of therapeutic. Who knew.
Personally, I think I need to read more about death. I’m into gritty, post-war American characters that get involved with the underbelly of society and have a Smith & Wesson. Happy Valentine’s day everyone.