Dave Matthes's Blog - Posts Tagged "tired"

Currently, it's 1:48 a.m. on the dot, and I'm drinking my third glass of Jameson Black Barrel poured from a decanter in the fashion of a glass-blown ship in a bottle (I'm running out, too. I'll probably pick up a new bottle to refill it later today). I haven't engaged in this specific ritual for probably at least a few years, mostly due to my work schedule but also maybe because I probably shouldn't anymore, if my slightly-advancing age (I'll only be 35 on the 22nd of this month, but when I say "advancing age" I really mean, lengthy experience, with the drink, which dates back at least twenty years, the highest concentration of "study" taking place between the years of 2010 and 2016, if memory is still reliable) has anything to say about it.

I've recently completed the second book in my latest literary endeavor, The Two Revolvers Saga, and am awaiting reviews from several readers prior to the release of said novel on November 29th. I've also reached the final day of my first vacation from work in years. So that may be why I'm drinking this heavily, this early in the morning. It's okay. Really. I'm a writer, remember? And I used to write about whiskey all the time; whiskey, sex, and all that wannabe Bukowski nonsense that all the cool kids are doing in excess these days. I'm allowed to do this sort of thing, at least every once in a while. I used to write alcohol and orgasm(or lack thereof) drenched poetry, but now I'm belly-button deep in post-apocalyptic westerns, a strange turn of events for me, but not unwelcome. I invite change, like most people, if I'm not already combatting it.

I haven't released a poetry collection in two years. I find this a little odd, but maybe necessary for my own evolution as a writer. I started one, that isn't really a poetry collection but more or less a novella written in poem form. Sort of a modern day Beowulf if it was written by Hunter S. Thompson, at least that's the best way I can describe it in its current form. To date, I have around 150 pages written, including 25some new poems within its pages. It may never see the light of day though, probably for the best. Who knows, maybe I'll die suddenly one day (is there any other respectable way?) and my cat will publish it in my name posthumously. That seems like something that would happen to me. Women have done worse, including my wife (but then again I've done worse to her) and so the only love to be found in this world when all the women in it have drank their fill of your soul is in the warm cuddles of a cat. I'll never deny that.

This drink is so good, I just want it to be known. And with each passing second, I hate the idea of returning to work on Thursday more and more and more. Who knows when my next vacation will be. Not this year, anyway. At least I can still write, I think, anyway. I have at least three more novels to write, all of them post-apocalyptic westerns. After that, maybe I'll release the Beowulf-Hunter S. Thompson mess, and maybe, just maybe, someone will remember there was in fact a time during which I wrote a poem about the monstrous, beautiful breasts of the colored girl who stole my virginity. Sometimes I wonder where in the world she got off to, like now, actually. Hope she's okay. We'll see. Winter is dead, and it's always summer anymore. And summer is the season of dead hope for us would-be writers, and the playground of rich, blessed, white women who go to church at least two days a week with their mutant kids.