Painting For Nick

I think I'm done with this one, my attempt to purge what I was feeling about Nick that week after I got the news. It's a blessing, I think, to die; our lugubrious reaction to it is mostly selfishness manifesting itself. At least this is the theory about death and grieving that I kick around. The only thing I can say with certainty is that if there are heavens, they are eight thousand times more sacred and beautiful now that Nick's there.

My next project is to rework the painting that I did of Sid. It's not an accurate enough portrait of him, plus it's a little boring. I want to work in his addiction somehow, and the bleakness of his last days. I've been trying to get into that headspace (plus I have strep throat so I've been feeling too shitty to do much and I get bored watching too many movies) so I've been frequenting the library. I just finished William Burroughs' Junky, and I would recommend it to anybody. It's funny how Hollywood glamorizes heroin addiction. I watched Trainspotting recently, and though it's definitely no walk in the park, I think that ultimately it is a glorification of the junky lifestyle. I'm not trying to get all Nancy Regan -- far from it -- but Burroughs' account is stunningly incisive and honest, and you don't get the feeling that he's touting his addiction with bravado, but you also don't feel that he's harboring regrets. I dunno, it's just a really unique, interesting (I finished it in four hours, hehe, couldn't put it down), no bullshit, no preaching story about sickness. Read it. It's not annoying like a lot of those other beat classics.