I'm in a strange mood at the moment. I want to write about literature, but I also want to write about myself. Me… wanting to write about myself is obviously nothing new. In fact I recently read on OMGfacts, that when people talk about themselves they find more pleasure than when they are talking about someone else. Say's researcher who put a number of different people in a MRI machine, and then had them talk about themselves for ten minutes, and talk about someone else for the next ten minutes. It probably was no real surprise to the researchers that the pleasure centers of the brain lite up like a flame on a match on the computer screen, while they were talking about themselves. Compared to the little flickers of light that showed while talking about a person they do not know and has nothing to do with them. This was verbal communication, not written. I am just making the assumption that the same pleasure centers of the brain light up when writing about yourself.
I like to write about couple of things aside from myself. Drugs for one, Kurt Cobain for another. Still when I'm talking or writing about those two things, I'm usually relating them to myself in some way, even if I don't put it down in words, it's going on in my head. The reason I want to write about literature is because I just finished writing a critique/book report on the book Catch 22. I finished the book a few weeks ago, but instead of taking time to process what I read by writing down my impressions of the book, I went on and read Little Women because I came across the movie version the same day I finished Catch 22. It wasn't the first time I read Little Women. So I didn't have to write about the book as normally would after reading it.
Right now I'm making yet another attempt to read, and understand Naked Lunch. This will be...I estimate the fifth time I've attempted this feat. Bill Burroughs is my favorite author, and I've read and enjoyed almost every other book he's written. My long, one time favorite book is written by Bill Burroughs. Of course that book is Junky. (My new favorite book is Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy) For whatever reason Naked Lunch just doesn't hold my attention. I have a hypothesis that I get distracted when Burroughs writes in Spanish. The book is about heroin, undoubtedly one of my all-time favorite subjects. Although heroin is not the main theme of the book, like it is the theme of the book, Junky.
Speaking of Naked Lunch, and William S. Burroughs I'm led to Kurt Cobain. I'll explain my thought process, because some of you might now understand the natural progression from Burroughs to Cobain. When Kurt was touring he found the book Naked Lunch in a free book bin. This was when Nirvana was touring in a van promoting the Bleach album. Before Nirvana and Kurt Cobain became a voice of a generation. The book ended up being one of Kurt's all-time favorite books. He becomes such a fan of Burroughs that when Kurt became famous, he pulls strings to meet Burroughs. Before they meet in person Kurt talked Burroughs into doing a spoken word album, with Kurt playing guitar in the background, while Burroughs read his own poetry. I never got to hear this album, mainly because it was not readily available back when I first got into Nirvana and Burroughs. Now I can just go to YouTube and listen to it. Kurt liked Burroughs so much that he wanted him to be in the music video for the song Heart Shaped Box on Nirvana's third album In Utero. When Burroughs said no, he offered to have a cloth over Burroughs head hiding his identity, and only people involved in the production of the video would know it was Burroughs. Burroughs still said no. When Kurt went to Kansas to meet Burroughs someone snapped a couple of pictures. When you look up images of Kurt Cobain, and you find the pictures of Kurt with Burroughs, the caption says, "Kurt with old man". It really bothers me. Burroughs is just reduced to a generic "old man".
Speaking of Kurt Cobain, William S. Burroughs, and Naked Lunch, I'm naturally brought to the subject of heroin. Both Kurt and Burroughs were heroin junkies. I started using heroin because Kurt and Courtney used it, and idolized them. This idealization began back in seventh grade. I was about 13 when I made the decision that I wanted to use heroin and become a junky. It was as if I was meant to be a junky. Opiates just fell into my lap. My dad was prescribed Oxyconitn when I was senior in high school. My junior year, one of my teachers got me a book of poems he thought I would really like. The book of poems was a collection of Allen Ginsberg poems, including Howl. I fell in love, and started looking into Ginsberg more, and then I found the beat nix. Kerouac, Burroughs, Cassidy, and Ginsberg. I read Junky the same year I started using my dad's opiate pain pills. The stars aligned to ruin my life. When the book Heavier than Heaven, the biography of Kurt Cobain came out the year after I graduated, and I found out that Kurt's favorite author was my favorite author (different favorite books) in my fucked up mind I thought wow, it truly is meant to be. I am supposed to be a junky. *sigh* Man I wish I could back and slap the shit out of myself. How could I have been so delusional? The odds are pretty good that if you’re a fan of Nirvana, you'll end up being a fan of the beat nik writers, and are likely to try drugs, including heroin.
I obviously have a mental illness. Thinking that I was linked to Kurt Cobain, and William S. Burroughs, and I was meant to become a heroin junky because they were. Then deluding myself into thinking I am to die young, by either suicide or tragic accidently drug over dose. This delusion came to a head when I was 27. I was should die while I was 27 and join the “greats”. Then I realized I have done absolutely nothing to remember for. I wasn’t a voice of my generation, I wasn’t a lunatic living in a disillusioned word, or was I the only sane person living in a disillusioned world? Think about that for a minute.
People slag on me because I’m almost 30, and I live with my parents, and get my money from the government because I have a mental illness. I don’t have a job I hate, wasting my life doing something I fucking hate just so those people who hate me think I should. In my opinion that is absolutely insane. I want to be a writer. So I spend my days reading, thinking, and writing. I’ve already written 1,200 words in this post. I’ve also wrote in my journal earlier today for a half hour, and I will write in it again tonight before I go to bed. I’ve let a number of people read my journals, and every single person who has read what they could get through have told me to get them in format they need to be in, to be sent to a literary agent. I have an entire dresser full of journals all in long hand. What year would I start with, and what year would I end at. I started journaling every day when I was 14. I’ve lost some of my journals from that time period because some were only poems. I thought the poems sucked and were derivative of other poets, so I burned them. From 17 on I have journals with entries from almost every single day up to today. Since I was 20, I’ve been buying leather bound journaling books. A journal usually last me two to three months. The notebook journals lasted up to six months. I have them all in order.
Putting all my journals onto the computer using Microsoft Word, and making sure the page widths are the correct width specified by the literary agents I choose to send it out to. I should send just enough entries for him or her to smell what I’m stepping in. If they are feeling my groove, they could submit an entry or two into a notable publication e.g. Vanity, NME, fuck anything. Getting it around to different publication, who might like what they see, and run a piece by me. Which could lead to a publishing house to noticing me? I really want to write a novel, so getting a foot in the door with my journals would be awesome.
This is all just word diarrhea, but above is the best thing I could for myself. Get me out of my apathy.