Do I come here often?
It’s strange to be reading with vigor again. Not since reading science-fiction novels in my teens that have I been to the bookstore twice in two days each time picking up two books. I love it when numbers have a way of working out like that.
Yesterday after having a great conversation with an Australian by the name of Mark Stewart while here in Melbourne my music curiosities were awakened. We walked around the local JB Hi-Fi, a record and video store, and showed each other bands that each liked. There was a surprising similarity given our age and background differences. He recommended an old school Australian punk band named Radio Birdman and I picked up an anthology of theirs from 1974-78. So far I like the album, very much like the clash, sex pistols and doors, very raw. For whatever reasons, this new awaking in music made me want to open other avenues in my dormant mind. I walked the streets for a while and came across a bookstore and purchased How To Be Good by Nick Hornby and Do I Come Here Often? by Henry Rollins. By the way, next time I decide to get back into literature, do not do it in Australia. Each book costs $24.95, but oh well its an investment in a new chapter in my life (pun unintentional, but I’m trying to make it a policy not to press the delete key in this journal).
I’ve nearly polished off Henry Rollins. His unforgiving attitude is inspirational. The man never stops, always on the lookout for the next opportunity to punish himself into action. It is strange that all through the book he talks of how he hates himself and is depressed, yet somehow you still wish to live your life his way. He has these Todd Dowd like stories where he meets with Jerry Lee Lewis, John Lee Hooker, David Lee Roth and travels all over the world meeting incredible people, you can’t help but try to incorporate some of that into you life. Henry is the reason I have started journaling again. As I age I find myself having foggy memories and displaced timelines. I believe forcing myself to recant from time to time will make me sharper, more introspective, and as a nice side affect a better writer.
Anyway, with Henry nearly gone, I for some reason decide that I’m not going to have enough to read given I have a week left here in Australia and a long flight home. This makes no sense since I brought nearly 2000 pages of text with me, but none of this seemed to be of a fine enough pedigree for my newly awakened mind so its off to the book store again. This time I pick up The Book of Dave by Will Self and Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk. After reading the first chapters I believe these will do nicely.
I do worry that all this literacy will lead me to being an elitist asshole. I already feel that better than thou personal creeping around the corner. It feels good. It’s a quality that I sometimes admire in Meaghan when its might isn’t directed at me. The alternative is to be some philistine who rants in coffee shops ignorantly. I hate that guy. Two of them were in the café tonight discussing how music can change lives. That much I believe, but their arguments were mundane and painful to listen to. I have heard more thought provoking conversations about beer alcoholic content percentages across state lines.
Anyway, this entry is already becoming much longer than I intended, I will sum up with the actions of today. I woke up but hit the snooze several time because I decided it would be a good idea to stay up and watch Return of the King last night. After a few cups of coffee it was off to Telstra to do the same boring shit and write down part number upon part number. Fortunately, do to some bureaucracy about forms and such the day was cut off around 11AM because we didn’t have access to the last floor of the audit. I had a bit of lunch with my Vision Stream helper mentioned previously Mark Stewart which reminds me, I owe him $10 from lunch. Got my hair cut by a perfectionist barber, and then read the rest of the day when I should have been working. All in all, it’s been a great day. So great that I have only just now come back to my loneliness and longing for home.
