The Ghost

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The Ghost The ghost of Charles Bukowski sits, quite lightly, on my left shoulder, whispering: "Drink more. Think less. Then write!" Living in a 21ft., 1985 'Class C' RV in 2012 is difficult, I have found. Bound, as you are, by aluminimum walls, 7 ft. wide, there is no place to hide from the insistent insinuations of incompetence at having planned your life insufficiently well as to have ended up here. No place to hide from C.B.'s spirit constantly carping: "Drink more. Think less. Then write." What little I drink in a week would not pay for one night of electricity, you see So I muse: "Agenbite of inwit" notwithstanding, simple survival, as the witless winter of the White Mountains bears down upon my shivering soul, seems paramount: a parameter for performance. Art? Wherefore art thou when of wherewithal thou dost not have enough to pay to plug in to the electrical grid when it is snowing, eh? Quoth the maven: "Nevermind. Drink more. Think less. Then WRITE!" ("Hey-hey, my, my."; or surrender mayhap to hypothermia, and then die.);{> Aye, aye, my non-corporeal captain. Still, do you not lie. Easy, my ghost. I hear, and will try to comply in my poverty stricken, 268 days till first SSI check way. OK? - J. Thrasher, 10/11/'12