Thursday, 1 December 2011

If you haven't got your health, what have you got?

Don't take me to no hospital, please. Fuckin' emergency rooms don't save nobody. Son of a bitches always pop you at midnight when all they got is a Chinese intern with a dull spoon. - Carlito Brigante

If you ain't got your health, what you got? Not a lot. I'm going to be working on this post all day long to take my mind off the pain. I might have to go to the doctor about my shoulder. I don't know yet. I know what Humphrey Bogart would do. He would just call up some dame and crack open a bottle of whisky. I know what Ernest Hemingway would do. But I don't have a shotgun. / Oh, I'm going for the whisky. Here's looking at you, kid.

Life is a mixture of good fortune and bad fortune. Not many people have it all good or all bad. If only you could choose. 'Yes, I'll take the minor heart attack, as long as I can have a promotion at work.' Think of Papillon. Given life in prison for a murder he didn't commit, he escapes and becomes a millionaire nightclub owner in Venezuela. Then an earthquake ruins him, so he decides to write a book. The book becomes an international bestseller. Four years later he dies of cancer. Who can make sense of it? I know I can't.

And poor Amy Winehouse. Her death convinced me to give music another try. You only live once. But I can't play my guitar. I've got songs to write. Time is running out. I haven't got all the time in the world.

Don't we all waste so much time on absolute nonsense? Most of our activities are just foam in water or smoke in the air. 'Now is the time to rouse yourself, the master said, for sitting on a cushion is not the way to fame, nor staying in bed.'

The pavement that hit me was my Benny Blanco. 'Remember me, slab of concrete from the Bronx?' Who set me up for that? Who knew I was going to Holland and Barrett? Ironic, really, when you think about it.

Only three weeks to Christmas. I hope I make it. I need a rest. I need mince pies.

When I sit still, the pain isn't so bad. I watched The Big Lebowski again last night, completely still. I left my awful reality for two hours. I wish I had a friend like Walter Sobchak. (His smile when he hears about the twenty thousand dollars. And: 'This was a valued rug?') I wish I knew people like Jackie Treehorn. That's a real escape. / This sort of writing isn't an escape, you know. It's a confrontation. / There's no hiding place here.

Like the world ... / Don't go away. When you're gone, no one will remember. You better stay. Well, for as long as you can.

Just called the doctor, and I'm seeing him tomorrow. I've got a bad feeling I won't be able to play my guitar for a couple of months. That would be a disaster. Gilly Marie may be a simple song, but it's a great simple song like Louie, Louie or Sugar, Sugar. I want people to hear it. And I want to make some money. This is a desperate situation. But I believe in God. There must be a reason. And I'm not at all religious. I'm spiritual. There's a big difference. / At least I have a basic recording of my new piece of music. It means I'll be able to write the lyrics for it without touching the guitar. / Why am I such a pessimist? Experience of life? I don't know.

It says on the internet that I might only have to wear a sling for a week or two. But I'm crazy! I haven't even seen the doctor yet. There's probably nothing wrong with me.

So, take me down to the paradise city, where the grass is green ...

Update (Sunday, 9.30am)

I went to the hospital yesterday and had an X-ray. It turns out I've got a small fracture. A couple of doctors there actually tried to talk me out of the X-ray because they didn't believe that any man could be so tough as to walk around for three days without painkillers. 'You would be in real pain if you had a fracture.' Well, now they understand. I'm like Lee Marvin or something.