No Drinks, No Forty Winks

I’m thrilled every time I open my mailbox and see a package in there.  Today I received two Delmore Schwartz books I ordered, having only read his Summer Knowledge (one of the best collections of poetry and prose-poems of the 20th C., based on what I’ve read.)

I wish I’d never discovered Amazon.  Having an Amazon account and a debit or credit card is a dangerous think for a book addict.  Sure, I get one book at a few bucks apiece, but throw in S & H, and multiply by the number of books I order and FUCK.  Luckily the winter blues are starting to die off a little, I’m more sober of late and I’m reading more.  As usual I’m juggling about 10 books or so (no novels or long-form books of any kind right now.)  The past week it’s been mostly TC Boyle’s new collection, Wild Child and Other Stories, for fiction.  As far as the first five tales go, it’s holding up to the high standard I hold for Boyle.  For non-fiction I’ve been ripping through HST’s Generation of Swine, which I slowly started long ago and am determined to finish in the next week.  As far as poetry, it’s been Patchen and Bukowski.

I drank a lot in January and the first half of this month.  Two nights ago I decided to stop the bender.  I’ve been sober since sometime Monday morning and not fielding much in withdrawal symptoms, except that I’m not sleeping for shit.  Usually I have some trouble sleeping after drying out, and I’ve done so after much longer benders, but goddamn.  I’ve gotten in an hour so here and there, but not enough to keep from getting disoriented and losing track of the days.  That’s the worst of it though.  Otherwise spirits are high.