Henry laid up, sick a few days, drinking tequila and fresh OJ for the vitamin C. Bored shitless with cabin fever— nothing to say, nothing to deliver except some segments of a head trip to nowhere.
He wondered why it was easier to write when wasted? And why music sounded better when wasted? Was it physics, botany, God—voodoo?
Henry wasn’t looking for answers, he wrote because he had too— booze, dope and writing was his escape.
He was a junk and an alcoholic, he knew it, he couldn’t get enough —it was full tilt boogie straight forward in high gear, you stoked the fires until your heart burst, the bloody mess going wherever it might fall.
This— the worst story, awful stuff, simply put, nothing. Henry telling anyone who listened that he liked getting fucked up, talking about pain some, talking about the speed he drives when fucked up.
When you're writing is good, you feel good, you feel chilled out, the writing transplanting you—taking you to a wholehearted place you know from the past.
This hardboiled writing like a cat scraping it’s claws on a blackboard, a migraine headache, pain you don’t need, pain you beg for from from time to time.
Confessional poetry/prose slow going, it was a bitch to keep it going, but easier to keep going if the author was full of shit.
Henry was full of shit, tonight anyways.