ramblings

In lieu of a “normal” post and amidst progress in other projects, I simply share an excerpt from some of my recent reading. Taking a break from leadership-/business-/lifestyle design-type books, I’m reading On Writing by Charles Bukowski. For those who don’t know, Bukowski was a pure artist but a sad soul, deeply lost in the pursuit of written art at its core and stubbornly repulsed by the publishing industry, and any “business for the sake of business” or anything interwoven with political influence for that matter. A true creator with an unfortunately typical propensity for the bottle. In and out of lunacy, drunkenness, raucous infidelity and absolute uncertainty.

Bukowski has been romanticized by many and republished often, even since his death in 1994 (On Writing being one example). And I think so many have inevitably idolized him, because he captures and represents the lonely years of creation without validation. The relentless pursuit of art accompanied by struggle. A large following has developed from admiring his fight to remain true to his own artistic beliefs despite public opinion, respectable or not.

beautiful, ugly, daring and gutless. Los Angeles - I-110 S.

On the note of public opinion, Mr. Bukowksi was widely regarded as foul, socially harsh and disrespectful to many. Not a man to sugar coat his bold thoughts on life, many were turned away. But his outspoken behavior won the loyalty of many purist poets, novelists and even vagabonds along the way. Reading letters he wrote to various colleagues and editors throughout his life, compiled in this book, has been an interesting trip that I’ve no doubt enjoyed. One passage, a poem in a letter he wrote to Jon Webb (editor of The Outsider) in 1962, is featured here:

                                                                                    I know how Van Gogh felt
                                        I wonder if he carried shit and blood in his pants
                                        and painted on elephant ears?
        How can these boys stand a chance, these 4-f hairy poets and
            practitioners
                when they drink goat’s milk, punch clocks,
                raise families, move to Glendale, vote for Nixon,
            wax their cars, bury grandma, take vitamins,
        how can they make it. haw how can they make it????
                                        standing outside the fire?

Here’s a disclaimer: In no way do I feel that living in Glendale or raising a family or burying grandma or any of these things is wrong. There’s simply a correlation Bukowski draws between people cut from a certain consistent cloth and their lack of interest to jump in the fire with him. The fire of raw creation. The fire that makes each moment unique yet the same that is capable of burning you alive. The road less traveled because it is not safe.

The road the pure artist takes. This is not Bukowski praise, rather an excerpt reflecting a noble attitude of those who dare to dare…

 - 7Ply Epic ​