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U çmenda komplet mbas gjithe kesaj qe pashe per Charles Bukowski...

Wonderful

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Poets were the first teachers of mankind. Horace

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Why You Should Never Date Boys Who Like Charles Bukowski


by Miriam Parker



My name is Miriam and I have a Charles Bukowski problem. Not an addiction to the author, more an unstoppable inclination toward falling for boys who are Bukowski enthusiasts. And there’s no worse quality in a boyfriend than liking Charles Bukowski.

A writing teacher told one of my classes once that if we ever needed to describe a character really quickly, and that character was the kind of guy who was afraid of commitment and regularly used non life-threatening drugs, we should write a set of Charles Bukowski books onto his bookshelf. Everyone laughed, but I knew that she was telling the truth.

It’s a shortcut, sure, but this describes almost every guy I have ever dated. It all started with a guy I’ll call Dick. Dick was my college boyfriend. He'd never been to college, so it might be more accurate to say that Dick was my boyfriend for about six months while I was in college. He was smart, though, and in between Bukowski books he read Dosotovesky and Kafka.

When I started dating Dick, I didn’t know anything about Charles Bukowski. At the time I was happy his favorite author was not Phillip Roth. At the time I had a rule that one should not date boys who like Phillip Roth because they’ll always love their mother more than they love you.

When Dick told me the main conversation he had with his mother when he went to her house was her saying, “Dick, roll me a joint” and his response was always, “what happened to the ten I rolled you last weekend?” I was intriqued. When he told me his favorite author was a guy named Bukowski, I was interested.

But I was young and naļve. I had never heard of this Bukowski and figured he was just another writer like the ones I enjoyed, like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Jane Austen. Aside from the aforementioned Philip Roth, I hadn’t really come across any controversial literary authors. Although I’d read my share of steamy romance novels as a frustrated teenager, I could never have imagined the contents of a Bukowski book.

When Dick gave me a copy of Post Office, I opened it, looked at the first page and read “What I mean by big was that her ass was big and her tits were big and that she was big in all the right places. She seemed a bit crazy, but I kept looking at her body and I didn’t care.” I closed the book and said I hated Charles Bukowski. “I hate Charles Bukowski,” I declared. As you can imagine, the problems in my relationship with Dick where there from the very beginning. In all his actions and even in his words, Dick imitated Bukowski. He didn’t have much experience with women, so I think that he may have thought the way Bukowski's characters interacted was the way of all couples.

As a result, many of our conversations centered around the size and attractiveness of my ass and the percentage of my body weight that it took up. He estimated about fifty percent. The rest of our conversations revolved around how good we looked together, and while this sounds like it might be a fun conversation to have, and it is at the beginning, I became so worried about us not looking good together that I turned into a very meek, very thin, very mousy person looking to Dick and only Dick for approval. Not that healthy.

It was a dificult relationship to get out of. In the end, I dreamt up a scenario in which I was still in love with my high school boyfriend, the one on whom the Phillip Roth rule was based, and as a result I was forced to break up with Dick.

For various reasons, some related to circumstance and some related to personal trauma, I didn’t have sex for almost two years after the Dick debacle. This gave me a lot of time to think up theories. One of them was: You Should Never Date Boys Who Like Charles Bukowski. It was a good theory. My experiences with Dick, extrapolated to all humanity, showed clearly that boys who like Charles Bukowski are only interested in women only for their looks, will always cheat on them without remorse and will never listen to what they say. Result: these boys make bad boyfriends.

Having instituted the rule, when I could no longer withstand my extended celibacy I began dating again. But I had learned my lesson, so I interrogated my potential lovers about what they liked to read. Among their responses:

From a cute banker type I met at a party: “I don’t read, I’m like, illiterate.” We didn’t even make it to the first date.

During my phase of going out with ugly guys because I thought they would be nicer to me than attractive guys, one of the chubbier ones said, “I like to read trash.”

I responded, “Oh, really, what kind?” I’m always up for trash.

He named the popular author of formulaic crime novels on whose website I happen to work and for whom I have a particular dislike. After I teased this date mercilessly about his interest in the worst writer around, I let him pay the check and then didn’t return his calls.

A date recently told me, after I told him I enjoyed Ann Patchett’s book Bel Canto, that he thinks all contemporary literature is crap. He then proceeded to name every author read in a college “History of Literature” survey course as his favorite. When I said, “Yeah, I thought Ulysses was pretty good, although the chapter that’s written as a play was a little bit hard to get through,” he stopped talking pretty quickly. He didn’t call me again. Despite the fact that he didn’t mention Bukowski in his list, I was pretty sure that he would like Bukowski if he deigned to read anything written after 1875.

After various false starts, last year, I managed to be involved for a few months with a guy, I’ll call him Frank, who I actually liked. We actually had very similar taste in books. Frank suggested that I read Tama Janowitz, who I enjoyed. I suggested that he read Augusten Burroughs, who he found hilarious. Come to think of it, he still has my copy of Dry. We both liked David Sedaris. And then he revealed that in addition to our shared tastes, he also liked Bukowski. I thought about my rule, now almost seven years old. What should I do? Can I break up with someone with whom I have so much in common just because I have a rule?

As a stalling tactic, I read Post Office. I liked it. I liked Henry Chinaski. While he was a bit vile, as I expected, in relation to women, he was an engaging character. And, as many men had told me but that I had never believed: Bukowski is a pretty good writer. I understood why the women in the books fell for the Hank Chinaski character. He was suave, sweet and he was good at not really listening to what women said to the point that they didn’t even really notice.

And then I realized that, if I had met him in the 50’s, I would have fallen for Charles Bukowski. I can picture the phone call I would have had with my friend Marge now:

“I met a nice guy,” I would have said.
“That’s great,” she would respond. “What does he do?”
“He works in the Post Office.”
“Oh,” she would say, disappointed.
“But he’s really a novelist,” I would have said.

Her voice would brighten.

“Oh?”
“But he’s got a little bit of a drinking problem.”
Sad again, she would respond, “Really? That’s too bad.”
Unflappable, I would say, “But I think I can change him. He’s just unhappy. He’ll be so much happier when we’re together.”

This is just a fantasy.

For various reasons I’m still not entirely clear on, they had something to do with sex and something else regarding a model, Frank broke up with me just as I was deciding I might be able to break my rule about boys who like Bukowski. In the future, I think I’ll stick to my guns.

But I don’t think it’s all as cut and dry as I make it out to be. The engaging thing about Charles Bukowski is that below his bluster, he was a really sweet guy. He really loved the women he was with. He really meant the things he said about their asses and their tits, and he meant them as true compliments. I think that the guys I’ve dated interpret Bukowski literally, but there’s so much more to the writing. There's so much more than just tits and asses. There’s pain and love and sorrow and a little glimmer of hope that things might be better tomorrow. I have become a girl who likes Charles Bukowski. What are the rules about that?

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No, no dejéis cerradas las puertas de la noche, del viento, del relįmpago, la de lo nunca visto.

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Bashkangjitje: bukowski_04.jpg
Ky file ėshtė shkarkuar 68 herė.

"La gente č il pił grande spettacolo del mondo.E non si paga il biglietto."

"Vuoi sentirti sicuro? La sicurezza si puņ avere in galera. Tre metri quadrati tutti per te senza affitto da pagare, senza conti della luce e del telefono, senza tasse, senza alimenti. Senza multe. Senza fermi per guida in stato di ubriachezza. Cure mediche gratuite. La compagnia di persone con gli stessi interessi. Chiesa. Inculate. Funerali gratuiti."

"Ospedali e galere e puttane: sono queste le universitą della vita. Io ho preso parecchie lauree. Chiamatemi dottore."

"Le feci tener su le scarpe coi tacchi alti. Sono un freak. Il corpo al naturale non lo reggo, ho bisogno di farmi ingannare. Gli psichiatri hanno un termine specifico per questo, ed io ho un termine specifico per gli psichiatri."

"Lo stile č uno strumento utile per dire quello che hai da dire, ma quando non hai pił niente da dire lo stile č un cazzo moscio di fronte alla mirabilissima fica dell'universo."

"Gente che va su e gił per le scale mobili, negli ascensori, che guida automobili, le porte dei garage che si aprono schiacciando un pulsante. Poi vanno in palestra per smaltire il grasso."

"Gioventł, brutta stronza, dove sei finita?"

"Mi seccherebbe essere arrestato per droga solo perchč ho un po' d'erba addosso, sarebbe come essere arrestato per violenza carnale perchč sto annusando delle mutandine stese al sole ad asciugare."

"Per me scopare č come farmi la barba, so che ogni tanto mi tocca, ma preferisco lasciar perdere."

__________________
[io non c'ero e se c'ero dormivo]

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Bashkangjitje: bukowski_03.jpg
Ky file ėshtė shkarkuar 67 herė.

"Quando sono ubriaco la mia ispirazione č al massimo,questo significa essere un gran figlio di puttana."

"Ecco il problema di chi beve, pensai versandomi da bere. Se succede qualcosa di brutto si beve per dimenticare; se succede qualcosa di bello si beve per festeggiare; e se non succede niente si beve per far succedere qualcosa"

"Presi la bottiglia ed andai in camera mia. Mi spogliai tenni le mutande ed andai a letto: era un gran casino. La gente si aggrappava ciecamente a tutto quello che trovava: comunismo, macrobiotica, zen, surf, ballo, ipnotismo, terapie di gruppo, orge, ciclismo, erbe aromatiche, cattolicesimo, sollevamento pesi, viaggi, solitudine, dieta vegetariana, India, pittura, scultura, composizione, direzione d'orchestra, campeggio, yoga, copula, gioco d'azzardo, alcool, ozio, gelato allo yoghurt, Beethoven, Bach, Budda, Cristo, meditazione trascendentale, succo di carota, suicidio, vestiti fatti a mano, viaggi aerei, New York City, e poi tutte queste cose sfumavano e non restava niente. La gente doveva trovare qualcosa da fare mentre aspettava di morire. era bello avere una scelta: Io l'avevo fatta da un pezzo la mia scelta. Alzai la bottiglia di vodka e la bevvi liscia. I russi sapevano il fatti loro"

__________________
[io non c'ero e se c'ero dormivo]

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where to put it

don't blame me if your cars breaks down on the freeway.
don't blame me if your wife runs away.
don't blame me if you went to war and discovered that people kill.

don't blame me that you murdered 4 years by voting for the wrong man.
don't blame me that sex sometimes fails.
don't blame me if I don't answer the telephone and can't watch tv.

don't blame me for your father.
don't blame me for the corner church.
don't blame me for the hydrogen bomb.

blame me if you are reading this.
don't blame me if you don't understand it.

don't blame me that the world crawls with killers.
don't blame me if you're one of them.
blame your father.
blame the corner church.

don;t blame me for Christmas or the 4th of July.
blame anybody else you fucking want to but don't blame me.

don't blame me for the homeless.
don't blame me for the 162 baseball games every year.
don't blame me for the basketball.

don't blame me for not wanting to get in crowded elevators.
don't blame me for not having a hero.
don't blame me for not creating one.

don't blame me for being confused by the laughet of the masses.
don't blame me for laughing alone.

don't blame me for the caging of the tiger.

blame me that my death will not be fearful,
but don't blame yourself.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRc6mHS9PjE
(I hate the fact that I can't post videos in here :o)

Dinosauria, we
06/10/2004

born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked

we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings

born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes

born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent
made inhuman
by this

the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god

the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder

we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground

the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the sea will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold

the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind

the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases

and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay

and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard

born out of that

the sun still hidden there

awaiting the next chapter

-Charles Bukowski, from The Last Night of the Earth Poems, 1992

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQQK3_avob0
(Bukowski reads his poems in these videos).

The Genius Of The Crowd

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

__________________
Bukė, kripė e zemėr tė mirė.

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Bukowski: Poetry and Motion

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r1e5Jeh2Fk0

He's crazy, he compares poetry to the satisfaction one gets after they're done with a "good hot beersh!t". He's says it's glorious.

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Bukė, kripė e zemėr tė mirė.

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''With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough'' - Charles Bukowski


I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.
 

__________________
.

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Alone with Everybody - Charles Bukowski

The flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

__________________
"Just because some of us can read and write and do little math, that doesn't mean we deserve to conquer the Universe."- K. Vonnegut

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