The success came too late. He was already too hard...the tyrannical parents, the group homes and juvenile detention centers had taken too much energy from him. Later the bottle and the heroin and the women and the jail cells would take more energy. He looked at the world with a disinterest. He didn't hate the world, or people, but he saw the cracks in the facade. He was cynical. And he had no anxiety about this.
The small home in Venice Beach came too late. It wasn't Dogtown anymore. It wasn't a surf ghetto by the sea. He may as well still live in Pittsburgh, he would often think this as he walked the beach. California was dead...His Bukowski was gone. His Black Flag was gone. He saw Keith Morris on a regular basis and he never bothered to approach him. What was the point?
The peace came too late. He no longer could appreciate it. The chaos that had coddled him no longer allowed for peace to be a mistress. He could no longer understand or operate in it.
The success came too late.
The small home in Venice Beach came too late. It wasn't Dogtown anymore. It wasn't a surf ghetto by the sea. He may as well still live in Pittsburgh, he would often think this as he walked the beach. California was dead...His Bukowski was gone. His Black Flag was gone. He saw Keith Morris on a regular basis and he never bothered to approach him. What was the point?
The peace came too late. He no longer could appreciate it. The chaos that had coddled him no longer allowed for peace to be a mistress. He could no longer understand or operate in it.
The success came too late.
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