Filed under: art/writing
I’m currently reading Women by Bukowski. Admittedly, I’m something of a junkie, and strongly feel that Notes of a Dirty Old Man is one of the best books I have ever read.
For any naive individuals out there: Charles Bukowski was a drunkard, probably considered a gambling addict, and considered a womanizer and chauvanist by feminist types. He was, he was, and its a matter of perspective. Many of these women invited themselves to go see him at home, knowing what they were in for.
Women is a very accurate, slightly embelished, biographical portrayl of women at their absolute worst. The jealousy, the clothes burning, the screaming and crying and cursing, the serial breakups, and the attempts to win via sex. One thing remains consistent through the entire novel: Bukowski as his character mirror, Herny Chinaski. His behavior never alters. He is a consistently drunken asshole. But they continue to flock. They continue to expect to be The One to change his ways. Failure after failure. Every type from redheaded speed freaks to ballerinas. The attempts to ensnare what they see as a shining mind just awaiting its liberation from the drink. They can’t accept his existence, an existence he describes as: “…I just exist. Then later I try to remember and write some of it down.”
An existence I find admirable. Every time I start one of his books, it makes me deeply sorry. I’m sorry that I often do not exist — in the sense that I’m often operating on an automatic level. I get up, clean up, leave, arrive, work, leave, arrive, and sleep. Its becoming incresingly rare for me to Be as I get older, and more involved in the world of careers, retirement plans, more permanent housing, relationships with plans for the future, and months with weekends scheduled two months in advance. Where is the choice in this? Where is the momentary flip from one mode to another, deciding on a whim to drive north into the woods and sleep in my car? I am entirely ensared in this life that I partially chose and partially fell into.
I hate you, Bukowski. I hate that I’m jealous of your poverty and alcoholism. I hate that I’m too much of a coward to do it myself.
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