I’ve indulged all my escapist dreams. I’m here, away from everyone, living it up. Being a selfish and antisocial git.
Los Angeles was the kind of place where everybody was from somewhere else and nobody really droppped anchor. It was a transient place. People drawn by the dream, people running from the nightmare. Twelve million people and all of them ready to make a break for it if necessary. Figuratively, literally, metaphorically — any way you want to look at it — everbody in L.A. keeps a bag packed. Just in case.
The best-trained part of us, though, is the mouth, it is always obediently and devoutly shut. And it’s only too true: an open mouth is a yawning fact, the fact that its owner is dwelling with his few thoughts in some other place than the domain and pleasure-garden of attentiveness.
It’s fogging a little, but I won’t slip off and hide in it. No…never again…
It’s more like… It keeps the world out so I can be in my own thoughts.
Could he continue to maintain his sanity that long? He didn’t know. That’s why he was devouring two or three books a day – to remove himself every minute that he possibly could from the madness of this life.
I had drunk myself to oblivion,
Stepped from the room into a dreamless slumber,
My consciousness had parted ways,
Taking a well-earned vacation.
Comfort and security are all well and good, but not at the cost of liberty, love and lustiness. The Bohemian knows that money, property and status have little to do with the content of one’s character, and that professional success and widespread celebration have little to do with talent. Of value to the Bohemian is spiritual integrity and creative freedom. The Bohemian would sooner live in poverty than submit to an undesirable job.
I want to glide in a world of beauty,’ I said. ‘To be carried away into a world of luxurious things.
I sleep all day. Noises flit around the house- garbage truck in the alley, rain, tree rapping against the bedroom window. I sleep. I inhabit sleep firmly, willing it, wielding it, pushing away dreams, refusing, refusing. Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion. … It is afternoon, it is night, it is morning. Everything is reduced to this bed, this endless slumber that makes the days into one day, makes time stop, stretches and compacts time until it is meaningless.