"Graphomaniac" by Tosh Berman

 

Graphomaniac by Tosh Berman

Have You Ever Been Lonely...Hungry? : Gaza, Histoire(s) du cinéma, and my role as a writer

 

Have You Ever Been Lonely...Hungry?

The Writing Life (as imagined)

 

The Writing Life (as imagined) by Tosh Berman

Waiting In An Impatient Age by Tosh Berman

 

Waiting In An Impatient Age

Mishima and Dazai

 

Mishima and Dazai by Tosh Berman

observation des oiseaux (bird watching & Edwyn Collins)

 

observation des oiseaux (bird watching & Edwyn Collins)

Inspiration by Tosh Berman

 

Inspiration by Tosh Berman

Perfection as Practiced by Tosh Berman

 

Perfection as Practiced by Tosh Berman

Tosh Berman on "When I Was Old: Simenon on Simenon" by Georges Simenon

 

Tosh on "When I Was Old: Simenon on Simenon" by Georges Simenon

Marylou Is Into Noir, and I'm Turning Blue

 

Maylou Is Into Noir, and I'm Turning Blue

I Write, I Publish, I Don't Do Anything Else by Tosh Berman

 

I Write, I Publish, I Don't Do Anything Else

This Is Sunday by Tosh Berman

 

This Is Sunday by Tosh Berman

Tosh's Journal : December 8 (Tribute to the Bathtub and Izu Oshima Islan...

My job is to reflect on life, and unfortunately, it doesn’t pay. I have a deep interest in the world around me or how I see that world. To be perfectly honest, the world can easily exist without any input by yours truly. Yet, I have known people who wait to hear from me before they enter such a world. My problem (and it is mine alone) is that I can’t get a regular paycheck for my writings on such an interesting landscape as what is out there. “There” being whatever is not within my world.

My ‘world’ is one where I take long baths and focus my thoughts on the bathroom wall. I notice the cracks in the wall, and I immediately think of them as examples of deep distress that is around me, but quite honestly, not in the bath with me. The tub is a no-zone. My sense of being is how hot the water is, and is there enough shampoo in the bottle? Other than that, the crack on the tiled wall is my total concentration on what that scar means to me.

Due to my poor eyesight, the crack has many dimensions attached to it. I often think of it as an island among the blue sea, since my bathroom tiles are in that color. What is the consistency that makes such an image to be so profound? I imagined Commander Perry as he approached Japan’s little island, Izu Ōshima, in 1854, that is two hours away from Tokyo on a jet boat, but still, such a remote island. It has an active volcano and five restaurants on that island that is full of abandoned cats. What one would think of as a stalled car engine is a wave of the sound of cats’ purring in unison. Feline’s urine can be smelled in the exotic landscape on the island. Houses left abandoned, and the numerous monuments for people who had either died due to plane failure or landslides are scattered in the most remote and public areas on Ōshima. I loved the island because the heavy rains served my mood perfectly. Almost as good as being in my bathtub looking at the island of Izu Ōshima on my blue tile.

The words I write are as useless as the soap bubbles from my shampoo as it mixes in with the bathwater. They, too, become islands in the sea of Tosh’s bathwater. Real depression hits me when I undo the drain and watch the water empty into a pipe that leads to a filthy sewer. Whatever happens, there is always the sewer. No one can lie to that space, because I think the stink and filth is very much part of our DNA.

I dry myself, put some cream on my face (to even out the worry lines on my forehead and mouth area), and then I dress very carefully.  First the underwear, then the socks, a striped t-shirt (since it’s Sunday, I choose a navy blue strip against white) and a sensible pair of walking shoes. I then approach my MacBook Air and try to enter into the adventure.

"The Subject Matter" by Tosh Berman

Hallo, I’m facing a blank page.  

The only words I can see are the ones above this sentence. 

I’m in search of a subject matter.  Although the subject isn’t coming to me. 

The subject matter is like a lover that is kept waiting.  Eventually, won’t come along at all. 

Reservations made at 4, and here I sit here waiting for the subject to come to me.

As I put the pen on the page, I can see reflections of the subject matter, but it’s always from a side view and not straight on. 

Ten minutes later I still wait, and the subject matter is beginning to mock me. 

I’m beginning to feel like a lounge lizard, and people are noticing that I just hang around

 The word here, a word there, oh for the push to add another word!  Well, the wait ever end?

The subject matter you taunt me.   I listen to a song and read a text, in the hope of obtaining you.

I want to remember, just to remember that I should be remembering, but alas, I forgot.

- Tosh Berman, July 1, 2017

The Evening Series No. 4

The Evening Series Volume 4

Tonight, I feel like someone turned the oxygen off.  Stuffiness has its decaying scent. Not mildew exactly, but the scent of life not happening.  Which pretty much describes my life.  The job I have already, pretty much pays the bills, but nothing left over for fun and relaxation.  So in place of relaxation and fun, I began to work on a journal.   At first, I decided to get a blank notebook - but one with attractive grade of paper, but also much needed lines.  My handwriting is kind of bad, so I need something to keep my lettering straight and to the point. And since I don’t have a lot of money, I purchased an expensive blank (but lined) journal.  In my mind, since I made a financial commitment on the tools of the trade (expensive pen as well) then that means I will produce great literature.  So far, the page has been blank. 

If time is money, I’ll be super broke by now.  I have noticed that I look at the clock on the wall, more than the empty blank page in front of me.  At times, I feel like a narration that is just waiting to be cracked open.   Then again, I do look at that clock often.  The big hand moves faster than the little hand.  And my hand grasps the pen and it’s not moving at all.   I put on Michel Legrand’s “Ballade de Polly Maggoo” on the turntable, because it’s getting closer to midnight, and I haven’t the foggiest idea why I have the notebook opened in front of me.  It’s not drawing me closer to the pen or paper.   If I stare at the two items on my table, it looks like they are pulling away from me.  

My memory is very great, and part of the problem is I can’t feel or tell which memory is more important than the other.   I start thinking maybe I should write something about my life, but then again, don’t you need to have a life to write about it?   Clearly I did things, but living that life is one thing, and then writing it down is a totally different matter.   I’m pretty sure I was happy when I went through the motions of my life, but writing, I feel a sense of disappointment, that perhaps, I could have done more.  And we are taught early that more is the best. But looking back, it seems not that much has happened.

The notebook’s blankness is now taunting me.  I used to own a series of leather bound miniature notebooks to take with me so I can jot down an idea or image if I’m out of the house.  But, not surprisingly, the blank notebook pretty much stayed in my back pocket of my jeans, and often while walking in Echo Park Lake, I would pretend to write something down on the blank page, because I would see people all around me, writing with great intensity.  The only thought in my head at that moment, is that I wish that I had some sort of passion - something to burn me up.  Depression, pure joy, even a boredom with many textures and levels - but all I felt was nothing.  So pretending just made me feel ‘OK’ at that moment, and occasionally I would stroke my chin, like I’m in deep thought.  But the truth is, I was totally acting.  I’m such a fake, and then I try to analyze that, so I can write on that subject - but all I come up with is a blank.  Void.  Empty.  Natta.  

It is at that moment, that I put the notebook aside, and open my laptop. I go on Facebook, to see what Kim is doing.  She writes on film, especially Noir, and is very much an expert on the cinematic arts.  She also can’t sleep at night, and tend to post on Facebook around 2 am, and since it is the twitching hour, I want to see what she’s up to.  Gene Wilder.  She’s posting images of Gene Wilder.  He died.  She likes Gene Wilder.  She likes him a lot.  I never seen a Gene Wilder film.  I have heard of him, and I saw images of him on the internet and in various coming attractions throughout my life, but I never actually seen a film by, or him in it.  The reason why I haven’t seen his films, is because I can’t stand comedies.  I can’t laugh at the movies.  Why?  I don’t know.  I went on a date once to see a Laurel and Hardy series of short films, and my date was laughing like an insane person, but I just kept quiet and ate our pop corn.  In fact, I pretty much ate the entire bag, because she was laughing, and I had nothing better to do then munch on the food, and I wasn’t even hungry. 

I actually wanted to go out to the movies with Kim, but I was afraid to ask her. Not in fear of not accepting my date, but her saying yes.  I feel it would have been my responsibility to actually select a film, that I think she may enjoy watching.   And since comedy is out of the question, what kind of film do you take a woman, or beyond that, a person to?   She has a quirky taste, so I imagine it could have been the recent “Batman VS. Superman” film, or even “Suicide Squad.” But is that really a good date movie, and especially with someone like her who has sophisticated taste in films?   I didn’t ask her.  Or ask her out.  Which solved that problem quickly.  

The page is still empty.  Yet, somehow I feel like I lived a life.  But not an actual life, but one that’s in my head. When people read my works in general, they notice that my writing is about nothing.  Yet in that void, one can taste the most devious fruits, that seem to be too good.   In reality, they have been rotting on my kitchen table. They are used more for visual appearance, than something tasty to eat.  So, in that sense, my writing will nourish your head, but leave your body nothing.  I throw the notebook aside, and I get off the chair.  I approach the window looking at the night.  It’s dark.  My eternal canvas.

- Tosh Berman

The Sunday Series: Sunday December 13, 2015

The Sunday Series:

Sunday December 13, 2015

My job is to basically reflect on life, and unfortunately it doesn’t pay.   I have a deep interest in the world around me, or how I see that world.  To be perfectly honest the world can easily exist without any input by yours truly.  Yet, I have known people, who wait to hear from me, before they enter such a world.  My problem (and it is mine alone) is that I can’t get a regular paycheck for my writings on such an interesting landscape as what is out there.  “There” being whatever is not within my world.   

My ‘world’ is one where I take long baths and focus my thoughts on the bathroom wall.  I notice the cracks in the wall, and I immediately think of them as examples of deep distress that is around me, but quite honestly, not in the bath with me.  The bath is a no-zone.  My sense of being is how hot the water is, and is there enough shampoo in the bottle?  Other than that, the crack on the tiled wall is my total concentration on what that scar means to me.  

Due to my poor eyesight, the crack has many dimensions attached to it.  I often think of it as an island among the blue sea, since my bathroom tiles are in that color.   What is the consistency that makes such an image to be so profound?  I imagined Commander Perry as he approached Japan’s little island, Izu Ōshima, in 1854, that is two hours away from Tokyo on a jet boat, but still, such a remote island.   It has an active volcano, and five restaurants on that island that if full of abandoned cats.  What one would think of as a stalled car engine is actually a wave of sound of cats’ purring in unison.   Feline’s urine can be smelled in the exotic landscape on the island.  Houses left abandoned and the numerous monuments for people who had either died due to plane failure or landslides are scattered in the most remote and public areas on Ōshima.   I loved the island, because the intense rains served my mood perfectly.  Almost as good as being in my bathtub looking at the island of Izu Ōshima on my blue tile. 

The words I write are as useless as the soap bubbles from my shampoo as it mixes in with the bath water.  They too become islands in the sea of Tosh’s bath water.   Real depression hits me when I undo the drain and watch the water empty into a pipe that leads to a filthy sewer.  Whatever happens, there is always the sewer.  No one can lie to that space, because I think the stink and filth is very much part of our DNA.  

I dry myself, put some cream on my face (to even out the worry lines on my forehead and mouth area) and then I dress very carefully.    First the underwear, then the socks, a stripped t-shirt (since it’s Sunday, I choose a navy blue strip against white) and a sensible pair of walking shoes.   I then approach my MacBook Air, and try to enter into the adventure.  

The Sunday Series: Sunday April 12, 2015

Sunday April 12, 2015

Sickness took over my body two days ago.  I spent two weeks in and out of a court room, which besides holding two defendants and their lawyers, also held germs in captivity. I started feeling ill as soon as I walked in the court room.  With a will of my own making, I imagined not to get sick during jury duty.  After I was released, and not suitable for either one's case (both the defense and the state) I started to feel the strains of a cold.  I of course ignored it as much as possible.  I went to an outside concert in West Hollywood, and it was there that it was obvious that I shouldn't be out on a cool night.  Since then, I have had a hard time concentrating on my writing as well as my daily reading.  I haven't been sick for at least five years.  I tend to think it is due that I gave up eating meat -but I couldn't escape the clutches of justice.

For the past two days, I have been in bed reading about Los Angeles art history of the 1960s.  There are two books: "Out of Sight" and "Rebels in Paradise."   "Rebels" I find it a total gossip narrative which has very little truth.  The stuff I read about my dad (Wallace Berman) were at its worst, just plain silly, but also I was more alarmed that the author didn't have any sources backing up her story regarding my father.  "Out of Sight" I think is the better book, because I sense a real appreciation of the artist's work.  History, especially recent history (the last 50 years or so) is basically based on various individuals, and each one has a specific point-of-view - and if they don't have a point-of-view, they tend to make things up.   As a writer I never trust my opinion, in the words of Truman Capote, I'm not really a writer, but just a typist.

This Sunday (today) I wanted to go out in the sunshine and see a film later tonight.  Alas, my breathing, the night sweats, coughing, is a strong clue that I will stay in tonight.  More likely to be in bed all day.   My eyes get tired when I read, and the Internet bores me.  What I find fascinating is laying on my back on the bed and watching my ceiling.   I imagine that if I die, and I die in my bed, the last image will be the ceiling. I'm hoping that it will be this ceiling, because it gives me immense pleasure.  The lighting fixture for instance doesn't even work. I think we need to change the lightbulb, but for whatever reason, we just refuse to change it.  I like to think it is due to laziness, but I think it has more to do with let nature do the job.  I'm having trouble sleeping, so I look at the ceiling a lot for the last few days.  Both the natural lighting outside and the lamp on my side of the bed add interesting textures to the ceiling.  It is the one area where I can fully meditate and not think of anything.

For the last two days, I haven't changed my bed clothing or the sheets.  Nor have I taken a shower or bath.  In the sense, I'm rotting in the bed, and that also gives me a sense of peace or pleasure.  Since my cold is getting worse, I'm also enjoying the changes in my so-far mild suffering.  It is if life goes on, even though I have stopped everything.    Now, I must stop typing, and focus on my ceiling.  For some reason, I feel that the answer to the world is on that ceiling.  I don't understand what or why, but I do know that the focus is on that ceiling.

The Sunday Series: Sunday March 29, 2015

Sunday March 29, 2015

I loathe Sundays.  The day of rest is a day of thinking about resting.  Sunday is like being slowly buried alive.  Just as my face is being covered, Monday comes along, and you're dealing with the thought of once again, facing another Sunday.  To this very day, I'm still confused if Sunday is the first day of the week, or the last.  The vagueness of it, drives me insane.  I can never understand the mania about Sundays.  All I know is that by chance if I feel restless, it seems to be always on a Sunday.  Fucking Sunday.

The other thing that bothers me is that I travel throughout Los Angeles on the bus, and the bus schedules on Sundays are slow or non-existent.  Many times I find myself in a part of town, and not being able to get out of that area, due to the limited bus services on Sunday.  Once on the bus, no problem, but waiting for a bus that may or may not show up, is torture.  Also, there are few shade trees on streets or especially at a bus stop.  Direct sunlight which causes skin cancer is also part of the equation of life on a Sunday.

Sunday is also the one day of the week, where I think about the other six days of that week. For me, it's the period at the end of the sentence.  Rarely does the week work out OK for me.  So my depression kicks in on a Sunday, realizing that I was pretty much of a failure throughout that week.  When the thick Sunday paper hits my door every Sunday morning, the depression is so thick, I feel like I can't swallow.   The paper rarely has news of that day, but mostly looking back on the week - which is like looking at my weekly journal, which is mostly blank.   Which to be honest is a perfect self-portrait.

I've read that German and Swedish researchers have determined that Sunday is the most depressing day of the week for a lot of people.  It was suggested on one website to write a letter to yourself on a Sunday night, and the second part of the letter, imagine yourself doing something exciting.  Moronic advice which even makes me more depressed.

"The Sunday Night Blues" is the terminology for those who can't face the rest of the week, and realize that Sunday is just a reminder of things to come.  Which is partly true for me, but what I loathe the most about that specific day is that it's set up as a day of relaxation or meditative thoughts.  Those who control the calendar also control the world.  I'm even upset that there is a 24-hour day.  The restriction of days, months and even years I find to be restrictive and totally depressing with respect to the creative spirit.    If I was free of Sundays, I feel I could take each day as it is, and not what I imagined it would be.

I can't imagine anything worse than the Sunday Brunch.   The combination of breakfast and lunch.  More likely an excuse for those who can't get up early for breakfast, which leads to a sense of guilt of missing that meal and having lunch instead.  A world that is not causal made up this late morning/early afternoon meal - and it is usually a social outing, where one has to deal with the like-minded crowd.  It's a disgusting practice.   British author Guy Beringer coined the phrase "brunch" in an article printed in "Hunter's Weekly" in 1895.   Brunch was proposed by him as a stance against the meal after one goes to church.  It should be lighter in mood.  Beringer's theory is that the brunch will "put you in a good temper, it makes you satisfied with yourself and your fellow beings, it sweeps away the worries and cobwebs of the week."  For me, it is totally the opposite.  I can't stand eating with a group of people who honor the work week by having a meal together on a Sunday.

Also the Sunday brunch was a good excuse for those who are burned-out, due to their work week, to start drinking alcohol in the late morning.  Bloody Marys, Bellinis and Mimosas are the popular drinks tied to the image of Brunch on a Sunday.  In the United States, brunch became part of the social life in the 1930s.   The hotel restaurant also jumped in because a lot of restaurants were closed on Sunday - so there was a service that needed to be offered.  Traditionally it is agreed upon that brunch takes place between 11:00 AM and 3:00 PM. Oddly enough, this is the time-frame where I do most of my writing.

For years, I have refused to have "brunch" due that it cuts into my private time with pen and paper.   The fact that most have to have a social life while working, and then on the weekend they are expected to once again, have a "social life" is a life of misery.   One needs not only to eliminate the 'brunch' but also the concept of a day of imprisonment - known as Sunday.

The Sunday Series: Sunday No. 5 (February 8, 2015)

Sunday No. 5

As a writer I have two interests.  Writing and going to Amoeba Music.  Nothing else really has a hold on my life.  The presence of my writing, which to be honest, blows me over.  To celebrate a perfect sentence or two, I usually go to Amoeba to celebrate my day of work.  Or to be honest, my half-n’ hour work in getting that sentence or two down on paper or computer screen.   The fact is right in the middle of the sentence, I’m already thinking about taking the bus to Amoeba.  I have the ability to think about two things at once.  My writing and the need to get to the record store.  I should stay home and finish the paragraph at the very least, but art is calling me, and like the salmon swimming against the tide of the river to reproduce, I too have a need to get to the record store in such a manner.

Like my writing, I don’t like to consider what I’m going to write about, until the very first sentence is written.   So in that spirit I go into the record store without a thought in my head.  Overall I know what sections the store to go to at first, because I started to have an appreciation of classical music.  The thing with me is I crave new sounds.   But I only like ‘old’ sounds, so what’s older than classical music?  Like most people of my generation, I discovered the classics through Stanley Kubrick.  If it wasn’t for him, I would more likely never heard of Beethoven’s music - although I knew the name, and often lie to people that I knew his music as well.  The fact is I discovered Beethoven through Wendy Carlos’ soundtrack to “A Clockwork Orange.” At the time of the original release of the film, there was nothing happening.  When you see Alex staring at you from the huge screen at the Cinerama Dome on Sunset Bouvelard, one becomes transfixed by that image as well as the music in the background.  Often when I write, I always have music in the background.  I avoid music with words or lyrics, because that would throw me off of my work on hand, but a nice drone or classical piece is like putting gasoline in my engine. I’m ready to roar with the appropriate sounds.

I purchased the latest Bob Dylan album “Shadows in the Night” and Glenn Branca’s “Lesson No. 1.” The Dylan is his album of standards, and Branca is one guitar rave-up.  On one level, it is just like the last part of a Yardbirds song, when all the guitars go crazy.  Glenn Branca is that part but with no chorus or words.  So it’s very hardcore and right-to-the-point type of music for me. At times, I just crave that guitar sound - and when you have at least five electric guitars going at once, well it is sort of like heaven.

Today being Sunday, I'm finding myself totally not motivated in writing a piece.   I wouldn’t say I exactly have a writer’s block, because I did write two perfectly fine sentences earlier today.  No, it’s not the writing, but more of a reflection problem.  I look at the window, with the Glenn Branca music blaring behind me, and I look at a tree, and oddly enough that image of the tree stays the same.  I look at it and think of it as a human body made out of wood, but that’s stupid.  A tree is a tree.  I of course start thinking of the tree as a “tree of life.” But no matter how long I look at it, and I even went outside to get another perspective, it is obviously a tree is nothing more than a tree.

I came back in, and got in front of my laptop.  Slowly sitting here, I am starting to realize that a whole world is opening up to me.  As I write, I’m in my living room.  I’m surrounded by my books as well as a decent, but not high-end hi-fi system.  Through the internet, I can order food to be delivered, so there is no reason for me to leave - like ever.   I’m feeling a certain amount of content of just being, and not thinking about it.  My existence is both, important and non-important.  If I die while writing, more likely it will take several days for someone to discover my body.  Therefore it’s imperative to always dress well, even at home.  Not only must I have clean underwear (of course), but also to make sure I dress like it will be the final day of my life.   The things around me, the objects on my work table, must tell the definitive narrative of my life.  With that intensity how can one possibly be ever bored!

Sunday represents a day of rest, but I can’t allow myself that form of thinking.  Everyday, including Sundays, are to be regarded as time passing, and how one deals with the aspect of a series of moments going by - is the art of living.   So yes, that tree outside my window is essentially both important and not important, but what is important is that I notice that tree.   And I think of you as well, my dear readers.   When and if when I do die at my table working on my Sunday piece, I’m thinking of you, till my last dying breath.

THE SUNDAY SERIES: Sunday No. 1

Sunday No. 1

Quiet Sunday is a loud Sunday for me.  The quietness around the house just opens up the inner sounds of my body, and my thoughts appear to me as a forceful speaker.  I want to shut it off, but I can’t. So today I decided not to have my bottle of wine.  I drink a bottle every night.  Either with my wife or by myself.  I get buzzed, but I never get drunk.  Or is being buzzed being drunk?  The difference is if you were in front of me, you wouldn’t think I was drunk.  I never get too boisterous, or opinionated and really, a bottle of wine for me is a way to pass time.  Time is the enemy that takes so prisoners. 

Sunday is the first day of the week.  I’m often reflective on that day, where I think what happened the previous week, while thinking about the upcoming week.  I keep a calendar for the purpose of not forgetting to pay off bills, or if I have luncheon or dinner appointments.  My life is very quiet, and therefore my thoughts are ringing out proud and loud, as I try to make sense of my existence.   Around 7 PM, is when I open the bottle of wine.  The first sip to the last is an adventure that I travel within.  

The things I like to do when drinking wine is to read, watch TV, or having a meal.  The hard part I think of not drinking wine, is the eating part.  Food is good, but wine makes the food desirable.  I usually drink two glasses of wine with a typical meal.  I also like to have a glass of wine before the meal.  It’s the initial glass that I drink slowly, while I write or listen to music on my laptop.  It’s a meditative moment where I’m focused on the drinking as well as the writing or music on hand.  Drinking wine doesn’t make the conversation better, or makes the music more enticing - but it adds a certain texture to those two distinctive practices. 

If I have the option, I rather drink wine alone.  Which is odd, because wine traditionally is a drink that one shares with another.  The thing is I have so many things to think about, that’s all in my head, I rarely have a need to verbally express myself to another person.  Wine in a way is that other person that’s in my head.  I don’t need wine to be social, in fact, I can amuse or be interesting to someone else without the effects of alcohol as a partner-in-crime.   Wine doesn’t impress me, or anyone else, it is a friend that puts his or hers arm around your shoulders, as you think or notice the passing of time.   As of right now, I’m writing without my bottle of wine, which is uniquely weird!  I don’t feel I need to have it for me to write.  The thoughts come out OK, but I do like wine as an object that is located in front of me.  When I do drink wine with respect to writing, I always prefer white.  White wine (all categories) allows me to think without the thoughts getting muddy.  Red wine usually puts me to sleep or often I feel like I’m moving in slow motion.  Red is for sure good for noticing time and what it’s doing that moment.  I become extra-aware of the moments passing - where with white wine, it is more about speed, and getting lost in whatever is on-hand at the moment you are drinking. 

My favorite day of the week to drink wine is of course, Sunday.  Traditionally it’s 24 hours of reflection.  Many go out to walk around the reservoir, or maybe see an afternoon movie, but I prefer to sit in front of my stereo speakers with a bottle of wine opened in front of me, and just let the intoxication take me to another space or place.  I like playing vinyl albums, because you have to leave your seat, and flip the record on its other side.   If you just think about time, it is usually 20 minutes per side, so I know for at least that amount of time, I can just focus on what I’m hearing and listening to.  The music is often just a soundtrack to my thoughts as if it was a ship passing between two giant icebergs in the far Atlantic. 

It is very odd not to feel the effects of my favorite drink at this time of night.   The truth is I never feel fully sober.  Mostly due to the toxins of the world that I breathe in and out on a daily basis.  My perception when I walk outside is sometimes overwhelming, due to the noise of the traffic and the volume of the crowd in various shopping centers and malls.  I also have a hard time dealing with people directly, especially on the telephone.  The only place where I feel totally comfortable is within my head with the buzz of a bottle of wine.  

I’m very curious to find out what will happen if I don’t drink my bottle of wine tonight.  Will minutes ring loudly in my ears as time passes?   What I do know is - schedule is addictive.  I think it even goes beyond addiction to drugs, drink, or any other vice one can think of.   Writing is very much an addiction as well.  The calendar is addictive. There is nothing more comforting than looking at your calendar and seeing your life being mapped out by the hour.  Drinking at night is also a sense of comfort.  It is a process through which to remark on the passing of that day, and that the schedule will go on at the present and into the future.  In other words, addiction is living.  And right now, I’m living to the fullest.