Bart Blog

I tried to be Bukowski, for one night. I have poured a hot, steaming bath, put on some classical music, and jumped in with a glass of wine. Over calculated the temperature, probably burned my balls a bit, squinted my eyes in an effort, and finally submerged my body. I could feel my blood rushing to the skin in a vicious attempt to put out the fire. No matter. I am in and not going out. After a while my body relaxed. As I slowly sipped my wine, I started to realize that Buk was probably onto something with this. Mahler’s IV Symphony: III. Ruhevoll, poco adagio was on the radio. I had no idea what that meant, but the announcer sounded excited. It was perfect. Another sip of wine. Not the cheap port wine that Bukowski used to drink. My usual store did not have that, tried to find something suiting. I thought about asking the store assistant for something not too good, but turns out that I thought that I will hurt his feelings and abandoned this idea. I regret that now. I have bought something from the discount shelf, surprisingly tasty, and half the price of what I usually pay. So here I am. My skin red from the heat of the water. Head getting hot from the booze. Interesting choice to become the Buk. I could have chosen to write 20 pages at night, every night, for weeks. Relentless. But no, I have chosen a hot bath. Enough. Water is getting cold and the bottle is empty. I try to get out swiftly, but it turns out that alcohol and hot is a devilish combo. I manage to grab the radiator, pull myself out and get on my feet. Towel, robe, hair drier. I don’t know how I feel about this. One hour probably wasted. But what have I wasted? This is the fun part. I have wasted nothingness. That sounds like an actual win. What next? I was precautious and bought two bottles. Opened the second one, sat on the kitchen chair, poured a glass. Stared at a blank piece of paper and started to write: I tried to be Bukowski, for one night.