“I felt like crying but nothing came out. It was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. But I think I have known it pretty often, too often.” ~ Charles Bukowski

“Love in the Afternoon,” by Andrew Wyeth
(1992, tempera on panel)*


 

That this particular Wyeth is one of my all-time favorite paintings says a lot about me, but what exactly, I don’t know.

Music by Five for Fighting, “World”

                   

So Now?

the words have come and gone,
I sit ill.
the phone rings, the cats sleep.
Linda vacuums.
I am waiting to live,
waiting to die.
I wish I could ring in some bravery.
it’s a lousy fix
but the tree outside doesn’t know:
I watch it moving with the wind
in the late afternoon sun.
there’s nothing to declare here,
just a waiting.
each faces it alone.
Oh, I was once young,
Oh, I was once unbelievably
young!

~ Charles Bukowski

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2 thoughts on ““I felt like crying but nothing came out. It was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. But I think I have known it pretty often, too often.” ~ Charles Bukowski

  1. re the Wyeth – inside looking out? that straightforward?
    I love Bukowski. I have a sense that part of me could have been (a) Bukowski. But I don’t drink enough, barely drink at all. Not that the drink or lack thereof is the real issue. I just like feeling safe and warm and got so very tired of the angst. But it occurs to me that it’s possible to exchange angst for dread. And dread is immobilising… I must think some more.

    • The Wyeth? A few things strike me: outside looking in, definitely, but also the continued lack of people in the images that I favor, which doesn’t mean that I hate people, even though I have a low tolerance for most of the population, but I think more that I just don’t feel comfortable with other people, preferring solitude.

      Bukowski, oh yes, completely agree. I could be him, but I don’t drink, just occasionally a beer or glass of whine. Oops, wine. One of them there froidean slips….

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