Franz Bukafka

I met a writer last night, a friend of the Profuser's. I guess he figured it would be fun to introduce his artsy friends to one another - to see if we'd hit it off and talk about Bukowski, or Kafka. It made me realize there are a great deal of writers in this city, all gripped by varying levels of denial. When he was asked if writing was hard, he replied: "No, writing isn't hard; you just smoke some cigarettes, get drunk and do drugs - the rest comes easily." If he was being facetious, he fooled me. 

He was also able to rattle off his influences - as though having readied himself for the question - and spoke about being published in a way that, to me, came off a bit too attention-seeking. The way he glamourized the life of a struggling writer in the throes of drug abuse and addiction was a poor emulation of the great Hunter S. Bukowski, and his portrayal of writing, in my opinion, was a bit dismissive of the form. Not that I demand reverance when speaking of such things, but something about his tone was bothersome; perhaps it was the arrogance that offended me. I did like him though, and I wouldn't mind hanging out again, but I'd prefer if he were forced to submit to a polygraph test, to attest to the veracity (or mendacity) of his prior claims. 

It also made me realize that I still haven't found my voice. It's been about a year now, and still, when I write I find myself struggling to complete sentences. It makes me wonder whether writing is for me. When I first started, I had so much pent up energy that writing was exhilirating; thoughts easily jumped from synapse to finger like little cerebral fleas. I thought that, by now, I would have surely found the comfort to write fluidly. But, alas. 

Defeat is a feeling I've grown accustomed to lately. It's like I'm trapped on a boardwalk full of rigged carnival games, failing hopelessly while trying to ring the bell with a large wooden mallet, at landing the ball into one of the glass cups, winning a horse race with a water-pistol. It rears its head in every arena of my life, doggedly, and it seems I cannot escape it. 

But who is defeated; what kind of person, I mean. One who tries to be victorious? What is it that I'm trying to win? 

Satisfaction? I can't get no.