Its the usual time of thinking. After dinner, after the numbing lemon tea, after the last smoke, before getting to read -- to write whatever I can manage. Suppressing my fit of anger and unhappiness, the mindless wanderings of peaceful dreams, the women I love but never attained, those scraps of conversations replaying over the forgetting week, the resistance to restrain the belief of all existing nature. The reason to graduate and understand every difficult unattempted whim. The hopes and the fears.
I've affirmed quite clearly that an existentialist is a child of circumstances, as opposed to any noted stumbling attempts or battling philosophical situations.
Its all beautiful. The Neruda poems. The maps. Water in every literal form. The written word, even if it spells f-u-c-k. The songs and their music. This misunderstand able reason to swim through torrents of meaningless, beguiling time, and what for? But to see a smile beneath the endless sky and above the bed of sunflowers and seas. The line where only closed eyes can see. What a wonderful world. The charcoal sketch framed hung in front of me, the listless set of unread books around the room, the velvet-seeming curtains, the perfumes, the grief for Achilles' death, the dying winter outside the window, the chaos hidden in simple mysteries, the single-legged lamp with a twisted shade, the poster of Cobain fallen on a drum set, the empty bottles of wines, school-house photograph boasting forgotten pride and innocence. Neil Young and his "gone, gone, damage done". There is no hope for any of you, if you don't know what you will think next. Everyone needs a Virginia Woolf death once in a while, if not more, as I come to understand. Surely poetical, this darn ramblings. Play the blues now...
Play the blues the way Buddy Guy did, or does, your politics here is free to design. Thursday evening, the Old Man and I attended our first show together. In an extremely unfamiliar way it was damn cool.. For me to see Buddy Guy was this surrealists-effing dream. A legend that's cheated time, Guy remains the last original tribe of American blues artists today. Heard him so long through the speakers, I though he was immortal in pictures and CD covers with Johnson, Hooker, Waters and Dixon. But was overwhelmingly mistaken.
The genius could do anything with the guitar. It was a pity what I overheard, some miserable fucking hack -- some jackass, of course, while interviewing him must have made a mess by not knowing any of his music. Buddy Guy played it pretty cool, fearing New Delhi knows no blues (although it doesn't, it still does a bit). He made everyone miss Mustang Sally though, but gave the briefest introduction by paying a tribute to the blues other legends. A simple matter of intrigue what this man can do with aguitar (he played Hendrix, like Hendrix).
Watching him play a few songs, fate had me trickling some embarrassing tears, it was a dream realising to see him produce the finest blues music ever will be heard live again. Sure is a pity -- Clapton sucks now miserably, after selling his soul to the commercial devil on a effing highway in a metropolitan mall -- that there aren't many exploring this genre without not helping to die. Just to watch him convinced me, damn, 71, you're a fucking god-sent Mephistopheles with an electric guitar. All the beer in my mind, and all the traces of nicotine on my lips, alas, its time to be forced in having a haircut. But what could I do without you.