Illness leads to blogging

Well I have been sick the past 2 days or so. I went to the minute clinic this morning to get tested for strep. The nurse there said my throat looked "mean" but the test came back negative for strep. I still got some antibiotics and am still quarantined for the day at least.
Amanda gave me a book of Bukowski poems for valentines day (!) so I have been reading some of that between movies and naps. I have been surprised by the beauty in these poems when the content is typically so ugly and raw. I have tried to read his fiction and have given up out of exhaustion and frustration. HIs poetry, so far, is much more focused and even sometimes hopeful!

"I have 2 bullets left and
use them
both.

nothing in the air but
clouds. nothing in the air but
rain. each man's life too short to
find meaning and
all the books almost a
waste.

I sit and listen to them
singing.
I sit and listen to
them. "
-from 'people as flowers'

"to fight for each minute is to
fight for what is possible within
yourself,
so that your life and your death
will not be like
theirs.

be not like them
and you will
survive.

minute by
minute. "

-from "the minute"

I have been thinking about why it is that my generation identifies with a character like Bukowski so well. Not specifically Bukowski but the archetype of a self-destructive, self-loathing, self-pitying persona. Bukowski might as well be Conor Oberst, Thom Yorke, or Bob Dylan. Last year, living with Evan, much of our conversation revolved around our generation and what that means. The "pathetic generation," we sometimes called it. I am starting to see that this analysis has a lot to do with being surrounded by artists here in Nashville. The fact that I am surrounded by artists and entrepeneurs exaggerates this position, I admit; However there seems to be a certain attraction to the idea of being pathetic, helpless and hopeless. I see this reflected in music, literature, as well as films: take the characters in any Wes Anderson film for example. I, personally, often have the overt desire to submit to the knowledge that I am helpless: I want to light a cigarette, buy a bottle of whiskey and feel sorry for myself (cue "The Wind" by Cat Stevens).