Sep 17, 2009

Just got back from the library. I used to not like libraries because the smell of the books annoyed me. I was obsessed with not having anything unclean close to me. Now I don’t care anymore.
Books I got: mostly poetry by Lorca, Neruda, Bukowski , Jim Morrison biography, Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan.
As I told in my email to my closest friends yesterday, I also want to say it here. The last 6 months of self help, sobriety, healthful living, celibacy, clean living has come to an end. I noticed that it really is not my thing. It certainly wasn’t doing any favors for me artistically or inspiration wise. It didn’t take me anywhere except away from who I really am. So I’m done with all that crap.
Of course I learned a lot in that time about life and myself and my place in this world. Was it fun? No. Most of the time I was more lonely, depressed and lifeless than during my worst hangovers. Yes, I was eating healthy and my body was nourished and mind pure and clean. But none of that stuff gets to the heart of who I am deep inside and in my spirit; an artist. My soul was dying of starvation. Luckily I caught myself before it would’ve been too late.
It doesn’t matter what else is going on. Whether I’m healthy or not, I’m still an artist. I express what I am in my spirit not what I am on the outside or on some scientific cellular level. I also relate to the artists who this deep spirit of me identifies with. My real heroes who just get to the truth of reality like nobody else are: John Lennon, Charles Bukowski, Kurt Cobain, David Lynch, Townes Van Zandt, Tchaikovsky, Elliott Smith, George Carlin. These guys just speak to me in a language that cuts through all the bullshit. I return to them time and time again. They understand that reality, the truth, life and nature and thus all great art is about expressing the beauty and cruelty of being a human being in this universe. They channel that pain, sorrow, joy, bliss, ecstasy, decadence through their words or voices or visions. Yes you can say they were/are tortured souls but because of that they were also free from being apart of the “circle” and in that respect they were above the norm. They flew high and dove low. That is the real club I feel I have always belonged in. The club of the not belonging anywhere. The tramps, the vagabonds, the outcasts of the outcasts. There is truly a beauty in suffering which is a pleasure that the followers of the snakeoil salesmen will never know.
Whether this leads me back to the booze, the crazy wild nights with strangers, the junk food, the burning bridges, the twilight hours, the drama queens, the lost weekends, etc. remains to be seen.
All I know is that there are experiences I have been secretly avoiding to be lived by this character known as Markus and I want to live them. There are bright lights that can only be seen through the eyes of the night owl.
I feel like I am home.