we were somewhere around barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold

The one real constant in my life recently aside from depression has been books. I’ve been devouring books at quite a rate recently, and I’ve been enjoying myself greatly in the process. Helps me get my mind off the pain and provides some fuel for my own writing.

There was a time when I told myself that I’d get more books by Murakami once I finished Norwegian Wood, but that’s obviously not been the case. I’ve consciously moved away from him and from those kinds of books and that style of writing and find myself gravitating towards either the hardboiled noir of Bruen or, my current preference, the whole world of craziness, oddness, drugs and sleaze presented in Burroughs’ Naked Lunch, Aniruddha Bahal’s Bunker 13 and Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the latter of which I just bought today and will start reading now that I’ve finally finished Bruen’s Priest.

I like craziness, I like oddness, I like things to be whacked out and I particularly like it when things in a book would make people cringe and say “that’s not right” or “that’s not good”. If one thing’s quite certain, it’d be that. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have enjoyed Naked Lunch as much as I did, what with its transgressive sexual acts, drug references, occasional gore (nothing like hanging a person and then eating his penis, yay) and various incredibly tripped out scenes (the “Talking Asshole” routine is classic). I enjoyed it greatly. I liked how funny and witty it was and I liked how Burroughs wrote it (even if it sometimes required me to read a paragraph once or twice to really grasp the meaning . . . if there was any, that is). Stuff your Shakespeare, man. Gimme Burroughs any day of the week.

And if I was easily offended (which I am obviously not), I’m sure I wouldn’t be enyjoing Aniruddha Bahal’s Bunker 13 either, which has some violence, lots of things for some people to be offended about, lots of morally-ambiguous behaviour (ok, more like “morally wrong”), but God, it’s an awesome book. Incredibly fast-paced and quite funny, too. I can just imagine some of my friends going “why is he doing this? This is wrong!” and so on and so forth. Bollocks to them, I say.

I finished two books recently: The aforementioned Bruen book Priest and George Orwell’s 1984. There’s not much I can say about Priest except that it’s archetypal Bruen, which is another way of saying it’s quite fucking good. I love Jack Taylor. He’s not exactly an antihero, but he’s by no means a hero, what with all his demons and all his failings. It’s a great book, definitely. I thought some of the scenes were fucking brilliant, as was the dialogue. Gritty, realistic and believable. Makes the characters feel alive.

Not much to say about Orwell’s 1984, either. Brilliant book. I finished it in about two days, drawn in by Orwell’s great writing, the very intriguing storyline and by the novel’s theme(s) and concept(s). I really couldn’t put it down, to use the cliche. It’s quite a thought-provoking read, for sure, and I’d say that it’s essential reading for anyone remotely interested in literature. I thought the third part of the novel was quite brilliant, perhaps a bit of a twist, and the closing chapter is certainly one of the darkest I’ve read. I think I know quite a few people who’d expect a happy ending to it, but there’s no such thing to be found in the novel. No sir. But you really wouldn’t expect anything happy from it, would you? It fit in with my somewhat cynical worldview, I guess.

The reason I decided to buy a Hunter S. Thompson book is partly due to the quote on the front of the aforementioned Bunker 13 goes: “Imagine Catch 22 rewritten by Hunter S. Thompson and set in an unapologetically modern India”. Someone whom I trust greatly for his taste in books and movies told me to check out both Catch 22 (which will probably be my next acquisition) and a Hunter S. Thompson book and said that Fear and Loathing is as good a place to start as any with Hunter S. Thompson. I predict that I’ll enjoy Fear and Loathing greatly.

I’ve also been working on another story. I’m trying to increase my oddness quotient but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding. Trying to think of a way to end this piece. I might have something in mind. We’ll see.

pop of the tops

There’s this odd sense of goodness that’s been rolling about in my soul today. Admittedly, if I think about it and suddenly become all serious then it all dissipates and my demons and insecurities slowly start coming to the forefront, but most of the time I’ve actually been feeling quite good today. What an alien concept, I think you’d agree. I’m not entirely sure why I’m feeling this way, nor am I sure where it’s from, but it’s quite refreshing to not actually hate myself today and not have that ever-popular phrase of “I wish I was dead” floating about in my head.

Now, of course, I know that I’m not actually ok and that any little thing could send me spiralling down back into that black abyss (there’s almost a sense of inevitability about that, wouldn’t you agree?), but for now I’m alright.

And I actually feel somewhat positive about my writing, in that I feel like I’m comfortable with this current direction I’m planning to explore, that of slightly odder stories and more economical, straight-to-the-point prose. Of course, I don’t actually feel good about it, I have many misgivings and much self-doubt for sure, and there’s much I can improve on (without actually knowing how to), but for now I guess it’s not all that bad. I have this pattern of being inecessantly negative and critical of myself, and while I’m not deluded enough to think I’ll be able to change just like that (*tries to snap fingers and fails*), I am going to try and change. “Going to” because I sure as hell am not doing anything about it now. And, to be frank, I don’t see me being able to figure myself (and life) out enough to do that anytime soon.

There’s a lot I don’t understand, really. But that comes with the territory, I guess, of being 18 and angsty and somewhat of a pessimist who quite definitely feels a strong sense of self-hate most days (and nights). Optimism, for one. The ability to always see the good bits. To feel that the world’s a great place. It bothers me because I can’t at all begin to understand how that feels, and, more importantly, how to feel that way.

But, you see, every time I try to express my thoughts here on this blog I always end up feeling negative. About my writing, about how well I’m actually saying what I want to say (if I’m actually saying anything at all . . . most of the time I’m not). I’ll admit that there are some bloggers who make me feel . . . jealous, almost, just because they seem to write these kinds of entries so much better than I do.

And I’m not even that good at prose, myself, even if it’s, I guess, one of the few things I have going for me.

You see, ladies and gentlemen, a lack of self-belief coupled with a tendency to be overly harsh on oneself is a recipe for some very, very bad moments. Story of my life.