Was mad, he had given up repeating all the words he knew and had started to make up his own, dada words from the Antonin Artaud of birds, and at night he would escape his cage, then sail out the open window, to buzz and torment the people leaving the bars with his squawks of "Ka-ra-rezemption!" and "Make your fat way home, fatty fat person!" Granted, those were real words. He was more likely to cry, "Skquibbleskzatt!" Sometimes he would fly into the bars and the patrons would buy him drinks. He was a garrulous drunk, and alcohol seemed to return him temporarily to sanity. He told us once, "If you're really honest about it, life I mean, you will agree the best mashed potatoes are made from barbed wire." We could hardly debate him on the fact.
"I cannot here withhold the statement that optimism... seems to me to be not merely an absurd, but also a really wicked, way of thinking, a bitter mockery of the most unspeakable sufferings of mankind."
Any world, in which you are not a stranger, then you are of no good to God, nor the Devil. You have a spiritual vocation, certainly. Homelessness makes you a prophet, in a vacuum. You are an arid saint, and you will wander all the days of your life barefoot in the desert, the survivor of a birth more futile than any war.
On the hearts of all of us, on the city streets and country roads, in the darkness in which we wander our whole lives, towards the lighted windows of houses we see but never seem to find, where they sit and wait for us, all of our dear departed ones, and some day we will come to the river, darkly flowing, and we will wander into that river, until the current takes us, and on our backs we shall see the stars glittering above us, Orion guiding us home, Orion guiding us home.
We saw, but failed to purchase, Charles Jackson's 1944 novel The Lost Weekend at the used bookstore yesterday. We don't know why. It's right up there with Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano, Jack Kerouac's Big Sur, and Hans Fallada's The Drinker in its stark depiction of total alcoholic desperation. Indeed, we found it the most harrowing of the pantheon and we recommend it highly. It lacks the poetic merit of the other books, but makes up for it by its horrifying realism. Read at your own risk!