Just for the Heck of It

Okay....just wrapped up lunch about two hours ago with Silver Dragon and Bakannal. All I have to say to Mr. GRam who did that long ass comment on this post is maybe I can get a job but you still can't get breakfast in bed. And no comment on the est of the shit, since I will not be baited into revealing anything that you don't know already.

Started back this consultancy with this international organisation and I have been placed in this office with this sweet goddamn view. Very peaceful, very relaxing and I could chill out and write whatever the fuck I want to write...including this stupid entry, just for the heck of it. I got two clients ringing off my goddamn phones and I am putting in a bid for a short and hopefully sweet editorial contract so the money situation will improve.

I've figured out something about me. I am afraid of too much success in my non-literary work. I like the finer things in life but where is the angst and the hunger when you get what you want? I treated myself to a bottle of red wine the other day, which I used to drink in the middle of the night while writing. It is not the same as a bottle of Coke and some cheap ass XM rum. Also, I work a lot out of Oasis Cafe where I get treated to some of the finest food and coffee in Guyana - I mean an Oasis salt-fish and bake along with a hot cup of organic Peruvian is almost orgasmic.

Yet, I am at my most productive with a shitty tasting cup of instant coffee and a bone-filled saltfish and bake from Camp Site complex. Spinoza held, as I have learned via Borges, that all things learn to preserve their nature. Maybe, whatever considerable talents I possess, I am essentially a bum at heart, a slacker resistant to the development of his potential. I try to think of it in terms of my dedication to my art but the truth is, I am the least prolific person in literary terms - with the exception of course of Bakannal who I am the point of giving up on because he has no fucking excuse.

I mean, and permit me to digress a little, I think five years ago I autographed a copy of Ariadne to Bakannal with something to the effect that it was his turn next. I have another book out and the man has not put out shit, which is tragic because if I am sure anybody can, it's him. I complain about mediocrity a great deal but the mediocre are going to continue to triumph in this fucking place if the people with real talent continue to be so fucking non-committal in their creative output.

which pop up from time to time. Am I providing adequately for my son, do I take care of him enough?Anyway, back to the main, if rambling, thread of what I was saying. I think the only thing I feel I am really good at is being a writer and being a father, and there are serious moments of doubt? Have I reached my zenith as a writer and, if yes, what sad existence will I fall into afterwards?