Story for Charles Bukowski

It's cold. The kind of cold that aches you. The kind of cold that forces people to migrate. He's walking, thick coat, gloves, hat. It still doesn't completely protect against the cold. It's a short walk less than half a mile. The liquor store stays open late, and with his sleeping habits the stores hours suit him well. He enters the store and grabs the twelve pack he came for. He makes the cold walk home. The walk home always seems shorter than the walk there. He steps into his small, dim apartment. He has a small t.v., once couch and a single mattress thrown on the bedroom floor. There's a weeks worth of dishes sitting in the sink. He puts the beer in the fridge and takes one out for himself. He opens it and sits on the couch. He drinks without turning on the t.v. He sits in silence, he sits alone. He drinks with impunity and passion. He survives, he scrapes out an existence. He breathes, eats, forgets, remembers, drinking all the while. He sits alone in a small, dim apartment. He sits alone on the couch and he drinks.

Cynicism

Recently watched a film titled My Kid Could Paint That. It was a documentary about Marla Olmstead. She came of note do to her paintings. She is an abstract artist. when her work came out it was highly praised. There were immediate comparisons to famous abstract artists Jackson Pollock. One critic was quoted int he film as saying "you could put her paintings into the metropolitan museum of modern art, and people would think it was done by a famous painter". The only catch with the paintings was the artist. Marla was only four years old. she was turning out fantastic, vibrant and beautiful abstract paintings. Eventually scrutiny began to fall on Marla. Was she doing the paintings? Or was she getting help from Her father an amateur artists himself. Eventually a piece was ran on 60 minutes(on a side not who the hell watches 60 minutes anymore, does anyone under 60 watch 6o minutes) that showed her painting and her father lightly coaching her. telling her what area to paint, not doing any of the work or instructing her how to work the brush. the subsequent fallout from the piece, nearly ruined her career. Eventually a full video of her creating a painting was released, and people were still unsatisfied with the result. the result of the painting that was captured on video was that of a work a bit less polished than her previous work. this is a four year old kid we're talking about, her work isn't going to be consistent. maybe she did get a little bit of help from her dad, maybe not. that's not the point of this entry. the point is sometimes the cynicism of the media is completely confounding. was there really a need to run a smear piece on a little kid? why even bring this up. you hurt a little kid and you hurt a family. I'm not even a person who really is the ype to get offended by something like this. I'm no "the most important thing is family" supporter, "or traditional family values is the only way" kind of person, but the piece was wholly unnecessary. It also reeks of journalistic irresponsibility. the piece aired in 2005. In 2005 our failure of a president had been re-elected on a campaign of fear and homophobia. We were in the middle of an unwinnable war(we still are) and were being lied to about the war on a daily basis. There are so many more important stories going on out there. If 60 minutes wanted to be a serious news journalism program they would stick to the news. Leave the Marla Olmstead stories to the people who should be covering them, the art world. Journalism and media responsibility hasn't always been great in this country, but it's been steadily worse in the eight years of the bush administration. Recovering from this journalistic malaise will probably be next to impossible, it has been throughly ingrained into our culture now. I can't believe that when Charlie Rose was in college studying journalism (eons ago) that his goal would be to do a fluff piece on a child artist. It's shameful he slipped to that. Will there ever be another Edward R. Murrow?

Bukowski and writing.

You don’t choose writing; writing chooses you----Charles Bukowski. Truer words have rarely been spoken. Bukowski was once asked by a student if he would recommend a career in writing, Bukowski asked if him if he was trying to be funny. Bukowski despised writers. He had numerous books of poetry published and when asked what was a poet he would say he didn’t know. Writing was a force with him, something he couldn’t control for him it just happened. The words were just there, he didn’t have to force it. Writing was as natural as eating or breathing. So many people have the desire to write, but very few can actually do it. Writing for a living doesn’t require you to be a particularly good writer; you just have to connect somewhere. Therein lies the rub, how do you connect in such a diverse and disconnected world. When I think about someone like Bukowski who wrote about thing like alcoholism, gambling, lowlifes, womanizing and his general misanthropy it’s hard to imagine anyone really caring about that. That certainly wasn’t the case, the man in often imitated and praised by many. His work certainly has more a cult appeal, but it still has an appeal. Can people truly relate to it? Is it a voyeuristic read, reading stories of things you have never and won’t ever experience? For me I find him funny, and I can understand his disdain for most things. Isn’t there something romantic about it too though? The drinking, the various women, the horse track, and all the time he’s writing these masterful works. There’s definitely something fascinating about the idea of an ordinary genius. Even that term “ordinary genius” a complete oxymoron, but that was Bukowski. He spoke for and in the language of the average man. When you write lowbrow the way he did and make a connection with the common, and the academic as Bukowski did, you know you’ve broken through. He was still an outsider the entire time. He hated doing readings. The only reason he did them was for the income it provided him. He would show up to reading drunk, and drank all the way through them. He often antagonized the crowd. It was all a complete farce to him. He found anyone who came to a poetry reading to be upstandingly pretentious. Anyone who spoke about writing he found to be very dull, even referring to it as a “disgusting subject”. As much as he liked to downplay everything he truly did have a way with words. Especially when it came to his novels, he was funny in a way that’s truly uncommon. His commentary on all subjects, his quick quips and nicknames for the people he encounters. He wrote in a way that was real and honest. You hear those terms thrown around a lot when it comes to writing, when it came to Bukowski they weren’t just buzz words to help sell a book they were the truth. His novels while being classified as works of fiction his books were always just thinly veiled slightly fictionalized autobiographies. He wrote about almost every stage in his life, if you read Ham On Rye through Hollywood you have a compendium of the mans life. From his abusive childhood, through his struggles eking

out a living through various jobs while trying to write for a living. Then his final success a movie based on his life with the script written by him. The success that he achieved could not be foreseen by himself, let alone anyone else. If Bukowski could make it can’t almost anyone make it? People probably often think that, but they miss the point with that question. He made it but not by any standard terms of success. He never did buckle and did everything on his own terms which is definitely admirable.

So when it comes to writing it’s all about making a connection. How do you do it? There’s no standard plan, there is no sub-standard plan. You just put fingers to keys or pen to paper and let what you have to say come out. Maybe if you’re lucky it will find someone who gives a shit, then maybe they will tell someone else who gives a shit. Then next thing you know it’s all spiraled horribly out of control and you’re a writer. There is certain glamour about being a writer, but making a living doing it is truly next to impossible. You would probably have better luck making a living as a stick-up man. Imagine that that though, people pay to read what you have to say. It certainly is a fascinating concept, and it’s probably the true driving force behind the desire for so many people wanting to be writers. To be heard isn’t that all you can really ask for. Charles Bukowski was heard, but even if not one word he wrote was ever published he still would have written. That’s what separates writers from the people who enjoy writing. A writer has to write he doesn’t have any choice in the matter.