Thursday, September 14, 2017

re-reading Wilson


Every few years I re-read Colin Wilson. This morning I began another reading of his novel, THE GLASS CAGE. And, as always happens when I read this novel, it instills within me an ache to pull out my William Blake and return to ye poetry and biographies. I've just gone to Amazon and order'd a biography I've never seen--ETERNITY'S SUNRISE: THE IMAGINATIVE WORLD OF WILLIAM BLAKE, by Leo Damrosch, publish'd just last year. Wilson's crime novel seems extremely literary, and that is one reason I find it so irresistible--I adore books that are written by people who love Literature as much as I do.  Of course, this flimsy paperback edition is a tatter'd old thing, and so I have just order'd a 2nd-hand hardcover copy, & will put off my return to ye novel until that edition arrives. Crime fiction, especially British mysteries, are perhaps my favourite kind of fiction. Although I cannot write anything but horror, I never actually read horror fiction, moft of which I find deadly dull.

Books are Life--literally. I think that's why my very best friends are almoft all writers or editors. I have very little interest in ye cinema, rarely watch telly, and can usually be found in my cozy armchair with a book in one hand and a cup of mild coffee (French Vanilla Cafe) in ye other. 'Tis a good life, aye.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Utterly Weary but Not Suicidal

This is my old pal Olaf the Viking Giant, in his coffin that was display'd at the Jones' Fantastic Museum in the Seattle Center, where I work'd for many years roaming around ye Center grounds in my Count Pugsly outfit. I miss those carefree days, because adulthood, as H. P. Lovecraft once wrote, is proving to be "hell". For ye moment, anyway. Actually, my life has been fairly easy and enjoyable, perhaps because I avoid humanity and stay home with my books and cats. But of late life has been not going so well  [what kind of sentence structure is that...???],and I feel the way that old Olaf looks in that photo--dead and dried-up. I seem to have a tendency to make what shou'd be simple rather difficult. Been having pain in my left foot, and so my sweet chum S. T. drove me to my medical clinic, where they had no clue as to what was wrong. The visit wasn't a total waste cos I got three vaccine shots. I was told to get my foot xrayed and have that sent to my clinic. They gave me a list of walk-in clinics, one if Bellevue and one in Kirkland.  I tried to locate the one in Bellevue but it utterly eluded me during my hour search in heavy traffic. Finally, in frustration, I gave up and returned home. I went to Harborview hospital this morning, hoping they could do this xray of my foot thing and send it to my clinic, but they said not without a reference paper from my doctor. So now I need to figure out how to get an xray of my sore foot before my next doctor's appointment on ye 14th. I guess on Monday I'm gonna return to Bellevue and try to find ye damn clinic one more time. 

Now anyone else I know cou'd do this kind of thing with no trouble; but I am so inept and become so frustrated and confused that such a task becomes next to impossible. It's like I have some severe mental deficiency that makes simple things difficult. My brain is badly wired or some such thing. Maybe this comes from not really living in the "real" world, from which I have rather isolated myself. I've never had to think about my health because, except for a mild heart attack many years ago, my health has been okay. 

So, having to "deal" with this kind of thing is frustrating and depressing and exhausting. It doesn't help that walking is so painful at ye present. Bleh. I hate having to even think about my health and going to doctors and stuff like that--I just wanna stay home, read my books and try to write some new stories. And yet my life is so easy and I have so much to be thankful for, I become embarrassed by these little episodes of "poor me, poor miserable me". I guess we all have our personal difficulties in life, and that is a part of existence. I read a lot of biographies of writers and know that I have it so much better than many of my literary heroes, as far as domestic comfort and such is concerned. So I ain't gonna end my life, because if I did I wouldn't be able to read all these cool books that I MUST READ before I die. This is an age of such Lovecraftian richness that ending existence just cos I'm depress'd or in pain wou'd be a senseless act. Books keep me going.

How strange, to want to express this stuff in public. I think I'll stop and return to my book--DAWNWARD SPIRE, LONELY HILL--THE LETTERS OF H. P. LOVECRAFT AND CLARK ASHTON SMITH.

Shalom.

(here's an old video)