writing is very much a state of trance…

she walks in while
I’m typing.

“listen,” she says, “I…”

as I scream and leap out of
my chair.

“sorry,” she says, “I wanted to
ask you about something…”

“yes, what is it?”

she leaves and I rip the paper
from the typer and throw it
into the trash.
there’s no way of
getting back.

then I forget about her
start again
as three or four pages
into it when she
walks in again.

“listen, I…”

“HOLY SHIT!” I leap out of
my chair.

I answer her question and
she leaves again.

I sit staring at the page
trying to pick up
the flow.   it’s
gone.
I rip it from the machine,
trash it.

I sit looking at a
cigar box.
WHITE OWL, it says.
over in a corner
I see a dirty bottle.
HYDROGEN PEROXIDE,
it says.

there’s nothing like
bitching about
bad luck:   I do it
quite well.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1981
Source
Original manuscript