clinging to the wreckage

A walk in the cold night air shortly after the Madrid sun has sunk and the sky is pink and orange. Past the institute of biodiversity and the water features I walk and I am dazzled by the beauty of this city, and I am proud to witness these sights walking so close to my own home. Moments later I am with friends, Spanish, French, Argentinian… I am the only Englishman and, although I miss the English, I am pleased by the variety of nationalities in my life these days. Beers begin to flow… conversations become ridiculous… there is sushi… then there is gin and tonic… standing outside next to a tube of flickering lights and looking to the star-filled sky I think of those who no longer care if I live or die… and, for some reason, they still mean a lot to me.

It’s been a long and arduous battle since September 2013 when I began my Masters Degree in English. I have navigated a complex maze of Greek tragedy, German post-war drama, South African afterlives of Robinson Crusoe, witnessed Paradise Lost, envisaged William Blake naked in his garden, tampered with Lord Byron and explored British India in the nineteenth century. Now I am suffering in the blaze of intense deadlines and trying to finish the final part of this sixteen-month pilgrimage. If I succeed, I will set sail in search of Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is a writer I have admired for several years now and whose works I have collected fanatically throughout those years. My goal is to write my Thesis on this man and his work and, as I have been lying here, awake, since 3am and it is now 6:30am, I am contemplating a trip to Los Angeles to discover more about the home of this poetic legend.