Post Office, by Charles Bukowski, has a vibrancy that has faded somewhat from American consciousness. Some sections are vile, but not all. If it weren’t for the stories I’d heard from workers over the years, some of the vignettes in this fictionalized tale of what it was like for Bukowski to work in the postal system in the 70s might have been obscured to time. It is telling, then, how immediate it feels even today.
Despite all the months and thousands of words I’ve written about decluttering, and sobriety, those sensations will probably never fully go away. I fantasize about going to some cool bookstore and buying a stack of books to enjoy just as I fantasize about, well, you know. I take a route of complete abstinence for my sobrieties, knowing that any drop of similar tasting liquid in the wrong mindset could tip me over. How about books?
Another 70 posts in the can! Compared to when I was first getting my footing with this website nearly 400 posts ago, things are coalescing now into a finely-tuned machine that seemingly spits out content daily. What if you told me then that I’d be spending an average of three hours daily writing, sometimes waking up at 3AM to write, all to chase my dreams? I’d say good! This dream is the only good fight there is: