the slothman cometh

reading too much ed abbey to pass the days, hence the title of the post. the lazy doggish days of august. nothing. no meditation. only smoking. thinking. lounging.
probably forgetting sanskrit. will now learn gas and pressures. voltage. money.
feeling isolated, or insulated, depending on how you look at it. going over my life. choices. desires. conflicts between. sometimes better to do nothing. like on Bukowski's grave "don't try". If you dont know what the fuck you should be doing, better to not do anything. this is the principle that unites those like us who are often seen as lazy, or contemptful of modern life. I dont even give a fart for art. how is that ed? (re: 'confessions of a barbarian') the dummy keeps falling in love, whatever the hell that means, and getting married to any nice twat it seems. then laments, has various lovers etc. other than that he was a pretty tough fucker though, and usually right on in most matters. he is self-absorbed as most writers are. but reading his books are enough to make any housebound hetero male want to drop everything and run off to the nearest forest. or the nearest attractive woman.

maybe I should write a book. it cant be that hard. Abbey could do it. the old crazy drunk Bukowski wrote poems. a novel. a novel idea. can one who has never written a novel write one in their spare time? would I then have to act and write like a writer all the time? desiring fame and young women? better to be famous for desiring women. first the book...the book. a story of some sort, with sex and violence. intrigue. I guess having Asian religious themes, since that is where I have (blown) most of my life and time. only the desire to create. like god. the lazy god. too lazy to become god.