The other night I found myself gazing out at the skyline of Los Angeles from some park, a line of adderall cut up and resting on the hardcover of a Hob Broun book, recently borrowed from the Benjamin Franklin Branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. I should use the library more, I remember thinking. A resolution? What else could I possibly want? Stay alive; more of the same. Really, what else? That's it. I can do that.
Maybe I can get a dog too.
But I musn’t wander too far from what I really wanted to talk about, which, in fact, was freedom, a kind of liberation: writing badly, speaking badly, holding forth about plate tectonics in the middle of a reptiles’ dinner party- it’s so liberating and so richly deserved- offering up myself to the compassion of strangers and then dishing out insults at random, spitting as I talk, passing out indiscriminately, becoming a nightmare for the friends I don’t deserve, milking a cow and pouring the milk over its head, as Nicanor Parra says in a magnificent and mysterious line.”
-Bolano
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