I had a friend in college with the same name of a popular whiskey and it wasn’t Jack Daniels. He introduced me to coke. He also played chess with me while we snorted coke on my mirror and talked about Nietzsche and felt like geniuses. Evan was the spitting image of D H Lawrence, and I thought about him and our shared comparative lit classes today while I walked around D H Lawrence’s old cabin and memorial North of Taos. 


He lived there in 1924 and 1925. And he gave the landlord the original manuscript to “Sons and Lovers” in exchange for the land, nut soon after died in France, and his enlightened wife Frieda returned to the home with his ashes and her married Italian lover. 

The D H Lawrence ranch is owned by the University of New Mexico, and only open to the public for a few hours, three days a week. I had tried three other times to visit the ranch but it was closed for weather or schedule restraints and so I was determined, steep muddy four-wheel drive or not, to haul my Beetle up the three miles of windy forest road to the ranch. 

“Recklessness is almost a man’s revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether.” –D H Lawrence, Sons and Lovers

David Herbert Lawrence, like my college friend named after a whiskey, was well aware of the charms of a woman. He wrote all about a strong, independent woman in Ursula from The Rainbow. So why wouldn’t he likewise know of the steps a man will take to assert his own power when it appears to be overshadowed by his counterpart?

Charley was rained on in Durango. Said he missed me and Dakota but when I asked if he liked this life- being a street kid- he said a part of him does like it and a part of him doesn’t. He likes being aimless and surviving on nothing. 

“And in this passion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all to herself. But he must be made abstract first.”

“Listen, I think we’re just so different you and I, maybe I should get a roommate-” I’m losing my mind.

“You just don’t get it… let me call you back-”

He’s wet and cold and met some more road dogs in Durango. He says “why’re you bitchn they’re good people”. Sure. I’m sure they are and they got you a beer. Maybe a cigarette. You’re living on the raw generosity of others. You’re free.

I’m sick of the words “I love you”. They’ve replaced love.

Maybe I’m too resentful to get passed being deserted.


I’ll write a new book: “My Fucking Life”. It begins with our ending. It begins with me.

“I’m addicted to sorrow,” Charley says.

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