Women (Bukowski)

There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and
sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote
was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was
great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer
thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn't
have enough the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great.
The truth, however, was there was very little greatness. It was almost
nonexistent, invisible. But you could be sure that the worst writers had the
most confidence, the least self-doubt....I foresaw future problems: as a recluse
I couldn't bear traffic. It had nothing to do with jealousy, I simply dislike
people, crowds, anywhere, except at my readings. People diminished me, they
sucked me dry.

No Relationship - No Relationship Problems

As I sit on my bed and write, a couple, of Asian descent, walk past in the midst of an argument on my road. The female walks around 5 paces in front of the male. They walk along in silence until the female thinks of another point and shouts at the smirking male who holds his arms out in a feeble defence. I wonder what he had done to cause the argument, presuming he was the initiator. A lot of couples, of all descents, seem to do this. I guess they're making their way back from Canon Hill Park. A nice idea descending into a dark cloud of misery. A walk in the park with the aim of being a nice romantic break from the stress of the city. Then, something is said out of line, perhaps as a result of tiredness, the male wanting to get under the skin of the female to reclaim his dominance after she demanded to watch her soap the previous night instead of the football. Who knows. Who cares.