I like reading Bukowski. And that bothers me some. And you’ll see why in the piece I wrote that follows this little essay of his on being alone.
“I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room — I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful — awful beyond all — but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room.
In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, “The strongest men are the most alone.” I’ve never thought, “Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, and I’ll feel good.” No, that won’t help. You know the typical crowd, “Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?” Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more wine”
My Response to Charles’ enjoyable nonsense
SITTING WITH CHARLES
I’d love to sit here drinking something heavy, reeking of ethanol, maybe with ice in a glass ruining the finish on the wood table with its sweat. Writing poems about how little I care about other people and how little I care about what they think of me, and being immune to sex yet screws multitude of women and not screwing the rest when not masturbating or masturbating – it doesn’t matter.
To stay up at night with a typewriter and a bottle – make that two bottles, one for now and one for later. The liquor store is closed.
Beating the odds whether it be on the horses or on whether I shall make it past the next breath. Bragging all the time about beating the odds while living in filth. Glorifying a life of self-abuse and an uncaring nature towards everything outside of myself.
Fingers with dirty nails and nicotine stains. Overflowing ash trays. Full bottles. Empty bottles. Half empty bottles.
Like Charles I’d point out the horrors of everything in the world and then share with cunning humor that precious me within. Vomit. Shit. It doesn’t matter when you are so obviously better than everyone else. Everyone.
That spinning feeling while words would bounce about my mind looking for the keys on the keyboard before they are forgotten. Bragging about rejection slips as if they were the scars from the tortures of war. True evidence of suffering.
Dizzy and then asleep and then awake and then a drink and drunk and writing again and again and again. Imagine. The odds. You know. The odds like the fabled example of the monkey at the typewriter given infinite time will at some point write Hamlet, or some such nonsense. Instead, here, poem after poem after poem and then someone somewhere gives in and now you are, or I am in this dream, an author.
Drunk, and up late at night with cigarettes burning down to the edge of the ashtray leaving that dark dank stain of tar and spit before finally going out. More bottles, more words, more anger.
Mostly more fear. To face one’s self is quite a task. That man was a master. A magician! He could make you see your self through words and more words. You can see the world through words and more words. But like the healer than cannot heal himself, Charles, you poor old delusional fuck, you simply could not find a way to make that magic work on you. You are, were, still am, in most ways merely just another asshole.
Christ I like reading his stuff.