Revisiting Bukowski (again).

Several years ago I wrote a post reviewing a documentary called Born Into This, which portrayed the life and times of Charles Bukowski. It was a movie that stuck with me, as I have a lot of interest in the author's work. I've said it before, but it bears repeating- Bukowski inspired me to try writing. He also made me appreciate poetry for the first time in my life. When I first got turned on to his books, I devoured any of his titles that I could find. And it was difficult to find them. There was something about the early '90s that made his words live especially vividly. Perhaps it was the growing rejection of the materialistic 80's. There was so much fakery and emptiness in that decade that made any form of authenticity seem fresh.

It takes a special form of genius to make an existence of degradation sparkle. Many of us in the "X-Generation" were taken with the seedy undercurrents of the street that Bukowski represented. In retrospect I feel that I received a precious gift by having come of age during the popular resurgence of "Hank Chinaski". I was able to enter almost complete dissolution without sacrificing the social ties that such a lifestyle usually precludes. It is true that I engaged in it all in a self-conscious way. I managed to avoid the kind of mistakes that allow no full recovery. Unlike many of the people I knew during that time, I emerged relatively unscathed. Yet I realize that "fate's caprice" had much to do with it. I can't accept all of the credit.

Last night I watched Born Into This once again. I've been showing selections from my DVD collection at a local bar every Sunday night. I was pleased to get the chance to share the story of a Twentieth Century icon with anyone who wanted to see it. Oddly, a couple of the folks who watched it with me are still unfamiliar with Bukowski's work. This fact seems a bit surreal to me given the role the great scribe has played in my life. How is it possible that I have old friends who I haven't shared this work with? These are people who are firmly placed in my demographic. How have they not found Bukowski on their own? I know we are in the midst of an illiterate era, but it seems odd that such an accessible writer would be ignored.

It could be that Charles Bukowski is becoming increasingly irrelevant with time, but I suspect that this is only a passing phase from which society will eventually awake. The hardscrabble times in front of us could spark the rediscovery of his genius. He knew the most visceral and simplest of pleasures. He celebrated them above all else. He was constantly on the lookout for phonies and poseurs. He could sniff them out as soon as they approached him, and he wasn't too shy to let them know their true quality. I could only hope to emulate his example. Certainly I would employ a greater degree of diplomacy. After all, I never took the kind of beatings that he did growing up. But I took my share of blows from the bitches of "fate".

I'm sure that Charles Bukowski would be turned off by some of the artifice I employ. He was, after all, an iconoclast. He seemed to have an unwavering conviction that he was right, and most others were wrong. I'm much more of a relativist than he was. My rejection of metaphor is not complete like his was. And in some strange way, I feel that Bukowski was a bit of a romantic at heart. He held tightly to his ideals, and was often uncompromising in a way that I can scarcely imagine being. Yet he could turn a phrase unlike anyone I have ever read. He could cut to the marrow of a special kind of squalid existence, and make even the idea of loneliness a bit appealing. In that respect he was a magician.

True Serendipity Brightens My Mood.

I had a span of a few very rough days in the last week, and my head's been filled with a lot of unnecessary stress. It's probably not appropriate to post the details on the blog, but it's an instructive story about 'friendship' and dual relationships. Anyway, one of the ways I get through stuff like this is to tell myself that things come around and there's likely to be good moments coming soon. I don't know if I'd say I necessary believe in something as nebulous as 'karma', but it's certainly hard to deny the existence of luck. From a statistical perspective, I suppose you could just consider the law of averages. If you analyze the quality of your days, some of them are by necessity better than others.

So I felt like I had a good day (or at least part of one) coming. Lo and behold, I've had a great start today. When I was scanning the internet to find things to do this weekend, I expanded my search to a few areas of Craigslist that I don't normally frequent. I looked at the upcoming garage and estate sales in the area, and found a listing that seemed intriguing. The description seemed to suggest a more discriminating taste, and I marked it down as a must-see. M. woke me up early today and we decided to hit this address first. I made my way through the streets of the indicated neighborhood, and found myself ascending into a small subsection where I had never been before.

The house was modest, and I had moderate hopes that I'd find something I could use. There were a lot of family members hanging about, and they were very welcoming. I saw lots of jazz CDs and picture frames. There were plenty of pairs of shoes and leather jackets. But there wasn't anything I had to have. I wandered into the basement to have a look, and browsed through some book shelves. There were lots of volumes on theater and some on photography. I was impressed at the sophistication of the collection, and had an intuition of promise. My feeling was fulfilled dramatically when I found an early Charles Bukowski title that I didn't recognize. I knew I'd buy it immediately.

It was called It Catches My Heart in its Hands. I have a number of Bukowski's works in their Black Sparrow editions, but I had never seen this particular book around. I went upstairs to pay for it, and the lady who took my money couldn't figure out whether to consider it a paperback ($1) or an oversize ($2). She opened up the front cover and said, "How nice... it's even signed." My heart came up to my throat for a second as I feared that she would not want to sell it. She suggested $3, and I told her to take the entire five bucks that I held out to her. She was delighted- "How sweet of you!". I smiled and walked out of the house and started to shake a bit. It wasn't until I got to my car that I took a real close look at what I had.

My new treasure was handcrafted, signed, and part of an edition of 777. The signature (in silver ink) reads "Charles Bukowski 8-2-63". It was produced by Jon and "Gypsy Lou" Webb (Loujon Press), who published an avant-garde literary magazine out of New Orleans called The Outsider. Apparently Bukowski made their acquaintance while he lived briefly in Tucson, AZ. After Jon Webb made a particularly successful trip to Las Vegas, he used his winnings to produce this exquisite collection of poetry. It really is remarkable, and I had a feeling that it was quite valuable. When I got home I Googled it and had that feeling confirmed beyond my expectations. Now all of a sudden I'm in a good mood and feeing very fortunate.