gravityeyelids
Master Don Juan
- Joined
- Mar 6, 2013
- Messages
- 918
- Reaction score
- 192
"It’s a world, it’s a world of potential suicides, well, I speak mostly of the United States, I don’t know the rest, but it’s a place of potential and actual suicides and hundreds and thousands of lonely women, women just aching for companionship, and then there are the men, going mad, masturbating, dreaming, hundreds and thousands of men going mad for sex or love or anything, and meanwhile, all these people, the lovelost, the sex-lost, the suicide-driven, they’re all working these dull soul-sucking jobs that twist their faces like rotten lemons and pinch their spirits, out, out, out . . . Somewhere in the structure of our society it is impossible for these people to contact each other. Churches, dances, parties only seem to push them further apart, and the dating clubs, the Computer Love Machines only destroy more and more a naturalness that should have been; a naturalness that has somehow been crushed and seems to remain crushed forever in our present method of living (dying). See them put on their bright clothes and get into their new cars and roar off to NOWHERE. It’s all an outside maneuver and the contact is missed.
The other night—at somebody else’s suggestion— we drove down Hollywood Boulevard. I have lived in Los Angeles, off and on, since 1922 and I don’t believe I have driven down Hollywood Boulevard more than half a dozen times (I am eaten by my own kind of madness). It was a Friday night and here they drove slowly, the street was jammed. The people in the cars were watching the people on the sidewalks and the people on the sidewalks were walking along looking in the closed store windows. Here and there was a movie house showing movies of people supposedly living. Further on were a few clubs and bars but nobody went in. Nobody was spending any money. Nobody was doing anything. They just watched and drove and walked. I suppose there was action enough somewhere, but hardly there and hardly for the masses. Here they worked all week on jobs they hated, and now given the slightest bit of leisure time they wasted it, they murdered it. It was more than I cared to have a lengthy view of. I turned off the boulevard, found Fountain Ave. and drove back toward Los Angeles.
I sit here playing writer each day and my typer faces the street. I live in a front court, and I don’t consciously work. Wait, that’s a mistake—I do consciously work—but I don’t consciously watch, but toward evening I see them coming in—walking and driving—most of them are young ladies who live alone in all these high rise apartments which surround me. Some of them are fairly attractive and most of them are well-dressed, but something has been beaten out of them. That 8-hour job of doing an obnoxious thing for their own survival and for somebody else’s profit had worked them over well.
These ladies immediately disappear into the high-rise walls, close the apartment door and vanish forever. From the cubicle of the job to the cubicle of resting and waiting to return to the job. The job is the center. The job is the sun. The job is the mother’s breast. To be jobless is the sin; to be lifeless doesn’t matter. Of course, one must consider their side—a job is money and to be moneyless is not comfortable. I know enough about this. And every person can’t be an artist; that is, a painter, a musician, a composer, a writer, whatever. Many lack the talent, many lack the courage; most lack both. Even artists can’t remain artists forever, especially good artists who can earn enough to survive within their craft. The talent goes, the courage goes, something goes. What’s left for the average person but an occupation that must, finally, kill the spirit? I am very sorry, for instance, for my own doctor. Now certainly here is a person who could afford a training that might put him into a profession more enlightening than a punch press operator. But I sit in his packed waiting room and see that he too is caught. He hustles his patients in and out, barely asking them what is wrong with them. He weighs them, gives them a pill
and now and then sticks a snake up their ass. If something further goes wrong he might suggest a hospital, an operation. He must pay office rent, receptionist rent, and have a wife in his home, an acceptable doctor’s wife in an acceptable doctor’s home. His life is simply a durable hell. His children, too, might become doctors if he can educate
them.
Very well, I watch my ladies vanish into their high-rise walls to shower and eat and watch tv, read the paper, phone Joyce, then smear themselves with cream, set the alarm and sleep. I am not a woman but I must imagine that some of them have sexual drives and a wish for male companionship and love. It must be so. But there’s the job. And there’s nobody down there, my god. There’s the weekend. What to do with the weekend? Those sons of *****es just want to get in my panties, that’s all. Hit and run, goodbye. Who wants to be part of a **** pile?
Everybody’s blocked off from each other. Finally, out of desperation and advancing age, a man is chosen, first, perhaps for sexual pleasure and then later for marriage, a marriage that never works, a marriage that becomes dull and desperate, another durable hell or maybe an unendurable one. Marriage is a contract to live in dullness until death do us part. What else then? Prostitution?
Ugggg.
Hundreds of thousands of lonely and frustrated men and women living mostly without sex and certainly without love, working at jobs they hate, running red lights, crashing into fire plugs and store windows, gambling, drinking, taking dope, smoking 2 packs a day, masturbating, going crazy, going crazier and crazier, getting religious, buying goldfish
and cats and monkeys . . .
Hundreds of thousands of lonely and frustrated men and women who settle for Disneyland instead of love, who settle for a baseball game instead of sex . . . Hundreds of thousands of lonely and frustrated men and women who’ll pass each other on the sidewalk and be afraid to look at each other’s faces, at each other’s eyes for fear they’ll be accused of being on the make. Blocks and walls of horror-movie magazines, girly magazines, nudey magazines, nude movies, vibrators, dirty jokes—everything but contact and real action. I must guess that the United States must be the loneliest place in the world with England not far behind. Too often I’d heard the guys talk on the job about the wild times they had in the army, the drunks, the *****s . . . When I asked them, “What are you doing now? Why did you stop?” I got these strange looks. It’s simple. They are afraid here now in civilian life. Have to keep the job. Have to pay off the car. Have to—No army to take care of them now. No 3 square meals. No bunk. No sure payday. No Uncle Sam to cure their clap . . . Their wildness, their courage was regulated and safe enough.
I tell you, we must be the most backward nation on earth. In our prisons we do not believe in allowing the men even limited sexual relationships with the opposite sex, yet we wonder why the men molest and ravage each other in desperation. You say they made a mistake? Crime is in the definition of it. Suppose you made a mistake? Would you like to be beaten by a dozen men and made into a sexual idiot? What judge passed that sentence?
It’s strange that in one of the most backward states, Mississippi, certain inmates are allowed to have limited sexual relationships with women—even though most of them are or pose as wives—from the outside. We murder ourselves with sex and occupation; the madhouses crawl with sexually maladjusted and occupationally-destroyed people.
Answers? Who knows? We’re structured in. The bars are heavy.
The other day I stopped for gas. I don’t know how it got around to the subject, I think a woman walked by and that started it, but the attendant said, “I haven’t had a piece of ass in 5 years.” I laughed. “You’re kidding, man.” “No, I’m serious. 5 years now.” He was in his 20’s. I drove away thinking about what a friend of mine had said, “Where are the women? Tell me, where are they? Where’s the action?” There’s none. It’s a desert.
My friend drives from Los Angeles to Mexico each weekend to fulfill his sexual desires in a *****house. I don’t know, my friends. Look at these walls, look at these people, look at these faces, these streets . . . We’ve all locked ourselves up. The rapists come out at night and the murderers, and the ladies lock themselves in and wait for the big one, the dream man, the money and soul man, the man of brilliant conversation, the man that mama might like. Set the alarm. He may walk in on the job . . . tomorrow, next week, next month, next year . . . surely he’s out there . . . These sons of *****es just want to get into my panties . . . I wonder what Bukowski’s like?"
The other night—at somebody else’s suggestion— we drove down Hollywood Boulevard. I have lived in Los Angeles, off and on, since 1922 and I don’t believe I have driven down Hollywood Boulevard more than half a dozen times (I am eaten by my own kind of madness). It was a Friday night and here they drove slowly, the street was jammed. The people in the cars were watching the people on the sidewalks and the people on the sidewalks were walking along looking in the closed store windows. Here and there was a movie house showing movies of people supposedly living. Further on were a few clubs and bars but nobody went in. Nobody was spending any money. Nobody was doing anything. They just watched and drove and walked. I suppose there was action enough somewhere, but hardly there and hardly for the masses. Here they worked all week on jobs they hated, and now given the slightest bit of leisure time they wasted it, they murdered it. It was more than I cared to have a lengthy view of. I turned off the boulevard, found Fountain Ave. and drove back toward Los Angeles.
I sit here playing writer each day and my typer faces the street. I live in a front court, and I don’t consciously work. Wait, that’s a mistake—I do consciously work—but I don’t consciously watch, but toward evening I see them coming in—walking and driving—most of them are young ladies who live alone in all these high rise apartments which surround me. Some of them are fairly attractive and most of them are well-dressed, but something has been beaten out of them. That 8-hour job of doing an obnoxious thing for their own survival and for somebody else’s profit had worked them over well.
These ladies immediately disappear into the high-rise walls, close the apartment door and vanish forever. From the cubicle of the job to the cubicle of resting and waiting to return to the job. The job is the center. The job is the sun. The job is the mother’s breast. To be jobless is the sin; to be lifeless doesn’t matter. Of course, one must consider their side—a job is money and to be moneyless is not comfortable. I know enough about this. And every person can’t be an artist; that is, a painter, a musician, a composer, a writer, whatever. Many lack the talent, many lack the courage; most lack both. Even artists can’t remain artists forever, especially good artists who can earn enough to survive within their craft. The talent goes, the courage goes, something goes. What’s left for the average person but an occupation that must, finally, kill the spirit? I am very sorry, for instance, for my own doctor. Now certainly here is a person who could afford a training that might put him into a profession more enlightening than a punch press operator. But I sit in his packed waiting room and see that he too is caught. He hustles his patients in and out, barely asking them what is wrong with them. He weighs them, gives them a pill
and now and then sticks a snake up their ass. If something further goes wrong he might suggest a hospital, an operation. He must pay office rent, receptionist rent, and have a wife in his home, an acceptable doctor’s wife in an acceptable doctor’s home. His life is simply a durable hell. His children, too, might become doctors if he can educate
them.
Very well, I watch my ladies vanish into their high-rise walls to shower and eat and watch tv, read the paper, phone Joyce, then smear themselves with cream, set the alarm and sleep. I am not a woman but I must imagine that some of them have sexual drives and a wish for male companionship and love. It must be so. But there’s the job. And there’s nobody down there, my god. There’s the weekend. What to do with the weekend? Those sons of *****es just want to get in my panties, that’s all. Hit and run, goodbye. Who wants to be part of a **** pile?
Everybody’s blocked off from each other. Finally, out of desperation and advancing age, a man is chosen, first, perhaps for sexual pleasure and then later for marriage, a marriage that never works, a marriage that becomes dull and desperate, another durable hell or maybe an unendurable one. Marriage is a contract to live in dullness until death do us part. What else then? Prostitution?
Ugggg.
Hundreds of thousands of lonely and frustrated men and women living mostly without sex and certainly without love, working at jobs they hate, running red lights, crashing into fire plugs and store windows, gambling, drinking, taking dope, smoking 2 packs a day, masturbating, going crazy, going crazier and crazier, getting religious, buying goldfish
and cats and monkeys . . .
Hundreds of thousands of lonely and frustrated men and women who settle for Disneyland instead of love, who settle for a baseball game instead of sex . . . Hundreds of thousands of lonely and frustrated men and women who’ll pass each other on the sidewalk and be afraid to look at each other’s faces, at each other’s eyes for fear they’ll be accused of being on the make. Blocks and walls of horror-movie magazines, girly magazines, nudey magazines, nude movies, vibrators, dirty jokes—everything but contact and real action. I must guess that the United States must be the loneliest place in the world with England not far behind. Too often I’d heard the guys talk on the job about the wild times they had in the army, the drunks, the *****s . . . When I asked them, “What are you doing now? Why did you stop?” I got these strange looks. It’s simple. They are afraid here now in civilian life. Have to keep the job. Have to pay off the car. Have to—No army to take care of them now. No 3 square meals. No bunk. No sure payday. No Uncle Sam to cure their clap . . . Their wildness, their courage was regulated and safe enough.
I tell you, we must be the most backward nation on earth. In our prisons we do not believe in allowing the men even limited sexual relationships with the opposite sex, yet we wonder why the men molest and ravage each other in desperation. You say they made a mistake? Crime is in the definition of it. Suppose you made a mistake? Would you like to be beaten by a dozen men and made into a sexual idiot? What judge passed that sentence?
It’s strange that in one of the most backward states, Mississippi, certain inmates are allowed to have limited sexual relationships with women—even though most of them are or pose as wives—from the outside. We murder ourselves with sex and occupation; the madhouses crawl with sexually maladjusted and occupationally-destroyed people.
Answers? Who knows? We’re structured in. The bars are heavy.
The other day I stopped for gas. I don’t know how it got around to the subject, I think a woman walked by and that started it, but the attendant said, “I haven’t had a piece of ass in 5 years.” I laughed. “You’re kidding, man.” “No, I’m serious. 5 years now.” He was in his 20’s. I drove away thinking about what a friend of mine had said, “Where are the women? Tell me, where are they? Where’s the action?” There’s none. It’s a desert.
My friend drives from Los Angeles to Mexico each weekend to fulfill his sexual desires in a *****house. I don’t know, my friends. Look at these walls, look at these people, look at these faces, these streets . . . We’ve all locked ourselves up. The rapists come out at night and the murderers, and the ladies lock themselves in and wait for the big one, the dream man, the money and soul man, the man of brilliant conversation, the man that mama might like. Set the alarm. He may walk in on the job . . . tomorrow, next week, next month, next year . . . surely he’s out there . . . These sons of *****es just want to get into my panties . . . I wonder what Bukowski’s like?"
