Yeah, that's what I thought. Shut up. Not you - them or *they* rather. The infamous *they* who know and say everything. (My double-finger to life moment of the day, right there.)
TWM left a comment last night that will make the top ten one day if I ever stop to rank my favorite commentary. Sometimes I get so bogged down with *life,* I need to be reminded of how amazing I am. It never gets old, either.
[Red is not me.]
[Red is the new black.]
*I did not change anything in the copy and paste - but I did leave some parts out. Just an FYI, the full comment is under last night's post.
Bukowski must write for different reasons. I write as a therapeutic exercise to clear my head. When I avoid it for too long, I develop writer's block from
1. not knowing which topic to pick
2. being overwhelmed at the blankness of an empty, white screen, and
3. laziness.
Making it a goal is a form of self-discipline for me - if I force it for awhile, it flows naturally again. It's always been like that, but as the yahoos get older, my career gets busier, and my hobbies more interesting and more all-consuming - I NEED the therapy even when I want to avoid it.
Myself I am always compelled to write, but I have cut way back on thee doing of it because in my world which is one of a large worldview I am having a hard time wrapping my head around everything that is going on, more than just Paris, but the entire world, that I find it hard to write simply and concisely in poetry what I am feeling.
I totally understand - I just tend to have a much, much smaller worldview, extremely egocentric, [that is not typed with pride] because I get beyond flustered and frustrated when I start to contemplate larger, ACTUAL world views. The solution seemed obvious.
.
.
.
Finally, Nate is an enigma to us beyond knowing you two were hanging in there and then you weren't--I dunno, it seemed like a good fit because you didn't discuss the relationship on either blog. Maybe that is the sort of thing you should keep 100% up there in corn country without having anyone's opinion or feelings on it other than what you two feel and think.Yes, enigma is an excellent word. And yes, the lack of publicity was intentional. I like it like this - it leaves less room for regret.
I am assured that once again you will muddle your way through, you will fall and get up, walk a bit and trip on your own big feet again but one of the things I HIGHLY respect about someone named DM is that you don't fear the getting up part and continuing on. What's it been now, I first checked in with you just prior to dh and you disentangling yourselves legally, what was that five years or so?
I have been divorced for 6.5 years now (crazy, eh?) and we blog met over 2 years before that - I once looked. You were my first real blogging/writing/sober pal - which makes you the oldest. [Hahahaha, oh in so many ways, too.]
My feet are NOT big.
I will most definitely trip. I may not fear the getting up part, but I do hate it. So there's that. I just keep doing it because I didn't know there were options. Are there?
And I am not interested in any that will make my family drag my ass back to rehab.
Aw. Just aw. I hope not.
If you EVER need to know you are totally and fully accepted and loved, you just think on me, a flawed character who simply has come to love you as you were, are and will be. I don't know why the most easily lovable people are always the last ones to know how well and truly they are loved by so many.
As I mentioned earlier - sometimes I just need to hear that. And randomly is the best way. Thank you Mark for always having faith in me, always laughing at me, and always taking Bump's side. You're the best writing dad a girl could ask for. [awwwww, lol]
Speaking of parents - another great one is my mom. Sometimes I forget that actually talking is helpful, too - especially in the areas that I don't want to write about. I try to group errands so that trips to the city (I LOVE SAYING THAT, btw) are more productive. So I texted my mom and asked if I could stop in for a little bit before I went shopping for curtains.
I talked so long, I did not get a chance to go shopping before the yahoos were all like "hey ma, are you done working yet? Rie and I are ready." But I'll take a good heart to heart with one of my parents (even my honorary ones) over a crowded big box store ANY DAY OF THE WEEK.
Slight tangent - it comes back around, I swear:
I was at dh's last night, having a much-needed and ever-painful meeting with our eldest about his grades. I hate doing that - it's just a very painful part parenting for me, two hours painful. I want so much for him. I hate that he struggles more than I hate ANYTHING else on the planet.
I played with the baby. Dh, Stef and I joked around with the boys. We caught up with each other's lives. Stef and I picked on dh. Dh and I talked about guns. We all have a lot of gratitude for our relationship.
We're that rare couple who likes each other better divorced - and work together better, divorced, too. But it never ceases to amaze me, when I think about it after the fact: I can curl up on their sofa with Stef on the other end, and we can chat for hours. I think I'm pretty awesome for being a part of this progressively close knit clan of Doyle weirdos - I really do. [Sometimes I feel all martyr-ish, too, but I know that part is pure bullshit.] I got incredibly lucky when dh chose a really good person to marry/step-parent my boys. It takes the maturity, openness, ability and vulnerability of EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US to maintain that trust. It would never, I mean NEVER be possible to have this unique family if dh had married an idiot. I mean, it's not like we're taking vacations together or anything - but to feel like we're all on one team?
Indeed, I have gratitude beyond words that dh didn't marry some bitch who was impossible to work with. Let alone enjoy and respect. Stef is actually pretty amazing and it turns out, it matters: I respect the third parenting opinion we've always had and used as our tie break. And that says it all.
This is Stef's first holiday without her mom, who passed away just a few short months ago. My heart aches for her. It makes me want to enjoy my parents while we are all here together. Thanks, MOM. I needed that, and it was nice to have a little one on one time. I forgot how much I talked while I did your nails.
Just sayin, DM
[NO, converting is NOT a better option.]
I have the impression you really do not know who Bukowski was. When the man said step away from the keyboard it was wise poetic advice. Without belaboring his history, it is safe to say of all poetry written in the Beat generation he was far and away above those elitist goofs in San Francisco. He would get drunk and go into the alley and fight me until one of us was bloodied up then we'd go back to drinking if I even implied he was a Beat poet.
ReplyDeleteThe man worked a regular job only 11 years that can be verified then he moved into a three room apartment and drank, fucked any woman he could seduce, drank and wrote. My kinda poet. I will include two of his works for your edification and future knowledge. YES it is my pleasure to finally teach you some of how I came to my own space. He died at 80 some years old in 1984.
GAS (an example of his honesty, take no prisoners, hold nothing sacred style)
GAS
my grandmother had a serious gas
problem.
we only saw her on Sunday.
she'd sit down to dinner
and she'd have gas.
she was very heavy,
80 years old.
wore this large glass brooch,
that's what you noticed most
in addition to the gas.
she'd let it go just as food was being served.
she'd let it go in bursts
spaced about a minute apart.
she'd let it go
4 or 5 times
as we reached for the potatoes
poured the gravy
cut into the meat.
nobody ever said anything,
especially me.
I was 6 years old.
only my grandmother spoke.
after 4 or 5 blasts
she would say in an offhand way,
'I'll bury you all!'
I didn't much like that:
first farting
then saying that.
it happened every Sunday.
she was my father's mother.
every Sunday it was death and gas
and mashed potatoes and gravy
and that big glass brooch.
those Sunday dinners would
always end with apple pie and
ice cream
and a big argument
about something or other,
my grandmother finally running out the door
and taking the red train back to
Pasadena
the place stinking for an hour
and my father walking about
fanning a newspaper in the air and
saying, 'it's all that damned sauerkraut
she eats!'
Charles Bukowski
THIS IS the finest love poem I have ever read and yes I did drop a tear when I first read it.
Confession
waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
I am so very sorry for
my wife
she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again
“Hank!”
Hank won’t
answer.
it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.
I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her
even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid
and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:
I love
you.
C. Bukowski
Hank was his alter ego, when he was writing about himself using second person to write first person pieces.
The big feet +meh+ that's subjective don't you think? You r feet are gargantuan compared to a hummingbird and tiny compared to an elephant. But the size of your feet really was just a an analogy to the things that trip us up eh? We are who we are and we do what we do to try to avid bumps and potholes eh? YOU when hit one do get up and go forward on your journey to your next destination.
ReplyDeleteSure there are all kinds of alternatives that would not lead you back to rehab, you could freeze in place and refuse to grow, refuse to experience, refuse to love, refuse to hate; you could just be that tree in the forest that does not stick out from the other trees and eventually lives its life and finally sheds it leaves for the last time. BORING.
You could wig right the fuck out, cut off all unessential communication, live and prosper in isolation and cop a FTW attitude. SELFISH.
You could get all religious and shit. That would be fucked up. ERROR compounding an error.
You could whine and dine on your whine. IGNORANT.
You could become a sexual Bukowski, this isn't the 50's, no one would notice, but you would despise yourself. Not that I think you don't like recreational sex, BUK though was a real honest to god slut. SELF HATRED.
There are a whole lot of different ways you or me or anyone could react to shit. I know it's not been easy for you, especially at the start of your new start when you had to remake and rediscover the best parts of you. I remember well all of your fear at venturing out and staying sober, finding a job and then the immense pleasure you took from being mentored and advanced and finally settling into your current place on the ladder, I remember how broken hearted you were when your divorce was finalized, how jealous you were when dh told you he was getting married after just not much before that finding out he'd even been dating--then slowly being won over to the triad of parenting and the much calmer relationship with your ex (my opinion that came about because his wife let you guys figure out that exes are not devils, just people who needed just like us something else than what we had.)
I remember a lot of traps, some you avoided and some you fell flat on your flat ass into. Some extremely dumb moments occurring in the hors that are your whole life to date. The admirable part is you admit to yourself first when you're being an asshole, forgive yourself and move on. That's not egocentric DM, that is wisdom and the desire to become better and more content. See my dear and darling writing daughter even you have erupted across the sky in fiery blazes of wisdom at times. Especially in not staying with or around those situations that were hurting you, how many women do you know who have the true courage to get out of the shit and not fear the changes? I know a few who simply can not force themselves to grow a pair. BUT you did and then kept them. That is a metaphor (I hope).
Anyway DM I already told you I loved you once this month that's enough. besides you called me old, real old is what you implied. Old enough to turn you over my knee I suppose to learn you not to make fun of the elderly.
OH by the way as a parting shot, I shot that 1911 after I found out the frame only was Spanish Llama, the guy who owns it for now, changed out all the internals for colt original parts. I'll need a month or so before I'll go head to head with you, it's got a hell of a kick compared to my 9mm Glock 43. Selling the 42 .380.
Any who DM I hope you take some time and read some Bukowski, he actually has a lot to say to people like you and me. Fuck it--I love you.
Give my best to Bump and G'ma & Becca.