I came out of the working withdrawing headache in the late evening and began to clean up the mess around me.

I methodically caught up spills and made text files and closed windows. While I did, I caught up on the latest versions of the news, and at some point I saw something in the sidebar about film noir.

Yes I want that. Reframe, refocus. History of Film Noir.

I learned a good bit and I’ll put it into the comments, but.

Even better.

A documentary on the life of Hunter Thompson, filmed it seems right after his suicide at 67 four or five years after the millenium.

I watched it right through, fascinated, remembering why I loved him once.

Here’s the main thing.

HST lived large.

I never learned that skill.

Hunter saw the broken ugliness of what we are and it cut him deep, even at a time when it was relatively benign compared to what we have now. And he never stopped telling the truth of what he saw.

He didn’t hold down jobs.

He wrote and scratched out a life in the Aspen version of a garrett.

Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride (Documentary)

He was an artist instead of an employee or a pensioner.

He figured out a way.

He blew himself away because his body was failing and the well of creativity had run dry for him. It was the honorable thing to do.

My body isn’t failing yet.

My well of creativity has sat most untapped for decades.

I listened to the Deans and their grave opinions as if I gave a shit, as if what they thought mattered in any way when it didn’t.

That was such a sinful thing to do; so truly bad of me.

It didn’t feel harmful or wrong but it WAS.

It didn’t feel cowardly but it was.

It’s late and I’m tired.

But fuck I want to make good on these sins, to awaken and live at last.