Often, in my times of mallow, I think of charles bukowski. I thank god that he existed. I thank god that he wrote. I think charles that he was pigeon enough to publish.
I first remember my discovery of chuck in Bristol Books when it was in downtown wilmington. It is funny to me, because I remember relating this in 'kristen's words' when I was in my late twenties, but I am older now, and it means something different.
Experience is cycles repeated and repeated with knowledge.
Black Sparrow Press and those matte bindings with the simplicity of font/design/presentation.
I plucked one of these books from the shelf.
I was mesmerized. Much like winterson, bukowski bewitched me. I think I earned $8/hour in those days, but I bought his book on my belaboured credit card.
I think it was 'dangling in the tournefouria'.
To me, chuck is:
it's a fucking drag.
Dirty the sheets. fuck. Fuck it.
The man is a man and is a pitiful man. Fuck him.
Your art is your salvation if you believe in salvation.
A warm body is solace, but it will fuck you.
Drink as much as you think will help you fool.
Talk to your fellow man. Talk until you think you've said it.
Fuck your fellow man until you think you feel it.
You are dying. I am dying. We are all on a merry-go-round. Smoke, drink, never think about tomorrow.
Sing tom waits. Listen to billie. Know that you are alone.
I love you. You are me you fucking pitiful bastard.
When I was walking miss lena in los feliz, I realized she lived near to one of chuck's haunts. I think it was delongpre street or something like it. I made her walk a bit extra to go by his old apartment. It was weird. It didn't seem very special. People lived there and there were spanish people and stuff happening.