description: The author's wife declares that this book is an artist's scream-out-loud account of the struggle for peace of mind amidst 21st century, American cultural inertia. The author thinks that it's 315 pages of distasteful inspiration infused with small doses of temporary insanity. Truthfully, On Rainy Days... is quite a deal. Three books in one—A New Baby in America, March Madness in Oswego, and Misanthropic Love Letters. The book is a man, if that is enough. An I tell you it ain’t getting prettier. I’m shot. They’re winning. I got to move to the woods because men make me sick to my stomach. I want men! But they don’t want the man within themselves that needs to be seen. I want the Oswego man to love his children enough not to put them in school. They must stop faking love. It’s making me sick. Who is teaching? The children are neglected. They hate. They know evil already, before puberty. The men here, out of laziness alone, do nothing but push them to impossible goals—always a cruel, confusing lie about happiness and money. Do you know that I know that by the time of your reading this, something had to give. By now man’s brain has undergone a permanent particle change. Or a plenitude of nuclear bombs detonated in your mom and dad’s time, and you’re down by the river, stark naked reading my book, while choking up pieces of radiated lung. Evolution kept good to its promise to take man to his desired end—the violent, red-hot hatred of life. Beauty is dead. Words—gone. You can read. But what did they have you read? Treasure Island? It? Poems by Anne Bradstreet? Of course words will have to be dead. I cannot be a friend to you, future fellow. You scare the shit out of me. I’m looking out my window now, in the know that no matter how many words I put to paper, they won’t be enough without a bomb, to scare men into constructing a happy home. I know the wrong and the evil inside every American house in 2001. Absolutely no signs of it changing for the better, either. Man is not happier than he was a hundred years ago. Quite the contrary! He is more afraid and more dangerous. He can tie his shoes and drive a truck, but strip him of all comfort—All comfort— and he will cut up his neighbor’s children, rather than go a day without food. In 1901 ice cream wasn’t invented yet. In 2001 a twelve year old boy killed as many children he could see in fifteen minutes. Once in a lifetime would have been a very sad tragedy. Once a month could have been corrected with the discriminate slaughter of all bad parents. Once a week is human insanity. Ice cream...murder.., gee, I wonder what cheerful, satanic mother tucks you in at night, future fella.
language: English
title: On Rainy Days the Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself
titlecomplete: On Rainy Days the Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself
publisher: Freeflow Books