Henry forgiven for the moment, serious about writing this time, he would dedicate himself to it.
It would last awhile, a week maybe, this new resolve. Henry wrote better when he was hurting, Henry numb but not hurting.
He had bad days and somewhat bad days, that was it.
Writers are supposed to write day after day—Bukowski hunched over a typewriter late at night drinking wine listening to Bruckner and Brahmns, lost in it, reveling, birthing, rebirthing, never missing a night.
Henry writing for kicks, cheap thrills, taking whatever he could get from it. Feeling nothing, his soul numb, his heart wrapped in studded and corse leather.
Endless recitation, repetitive, patented schtick— warm ups, waiting to bust out and soar.
Henry spent most of his time in bed, he wrote in bed, ate his meals in bed—He lived there, lights off and curtains closed tight. Safe from free floating spirits and ghost, wrapped up tight.
He was the medicine man, burning Pine inscence in a bed of Mesquite chips, smoke circular, spiraling upwards, taking some of Henry’s junk with it.
Henry awe-inspiring and majestic, writing about nothing at all— spittle and splat, good-for-nothing and torpid.
He filed this story (Would u call this a story?) a few days ago, hoping to come back fresh, anew.
Back again, blank and bent-over with absolutely nothing in his head or heart.
An easy way to end a short story is with a quote, this is when you know a writer is faking it.
Bukowski on “Writers block,”
“—writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all”