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Dear Charles Bukowski;
I read you first when i was a stupid teenager.
i bought a copy of “ham on rye” from my favorite bookstore and read it in a day. i understood it because i had the same bruises. i was a girl who always knew something was wrong with her, but didn’t have the name for it. you named it. you named it without flinching, without metaphors, without pretenses.
i hated “pulp” because i never understood Nicky. i still hate pulp because you were too late. you were dying and you knew it, so you wrote about a detective who couldn’t die. i think maybe it was meant to be a huge middle finger. who knows?
but your poetry… man, your poetry undid me.
i loved it first as a teenager (which is to say i loved it for all the wrong reasons). i loved the unconventional. the profanity. the ugliness. the teen who had just learned to put pen to paper liked the dryness and the lack of sentimentality. i liked the image of a self-destructive poet who wrote about his existentialist dread next to a glass of whiskey. i fell in love with “love is a dog from hell.” and “i have gotten so used to melancholia that i greet it like an old friend.” you felt my hurt. the rage. and gave me permission to comfortably stay in my nothingness.
then i grew older. i became a snob. i became a purist. i became the kind of insufferable person who used the word purist without irony. i decided i didn’t like you anymore. i decided i had outgrown you. you stood for everything i stood against. you were a raging misogynist. a drunk. a half-poet who wrote with too many lines. i decided you were no Rilke. you were no Nabokov. you were no Proust. you weren’t beautiful. you were disgusting. you were small. you were nothing.
i was wrong.
i read you again last week. the people look like flowers at last. burning in water, drowning in flames. the days run away like wild horses over the hills. i read them again the same way i did before. with fever, hunger, greed. and i felt something i had not felt in years. i felt naked. i felt seen. not the same way Rilke sees you. in the way a bruised toenail sees you. in the way a hangover sees you. in the way your cracked bathroom mirror sees you when you lost sleep and don’t recognize your face.
i’m older now. i’m more patient. softer around the edges. i respect you now. i respect the ugliness. the refusal. the rebellion. i respect your toughness for writing every day for years (even when nobody was reading). i respect the mundane you loved for each minute. i respect the way you loved the world even when it didn’t love you back.
so thank you for the genius of the crowd. thank you for a division. thank you for the laughing heart. and thank you for the bluebird in your heart that wants to get out.
rest in pure bliss, old man. i hope someone puts an ice-cold beer and a brand new pen on your grave today.
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it’s not what you are
it’s just what you did
don’t hang up the phone
i love you to death:(
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“I like men with powerful shoulders
and prefer big hands.
no requirements for the size of your cock,
but you have to like to use it,
preferably just on-in me, […]
I like men who read poetry,
and men who write turn me on even more[…]
if they’re good.
I also only like ambitious men,
men who will take their destinies in their hands
and try to shape them.
I want a man who is mechanical,
physical,
likes to build,
work with his hands,
perhaps even a sportsman,
but one who does all these things with intelligence
and preferably learned them from
books.
I like a man who has faith in books.
That means he’ll also have faith in me.
I’m a very long and imaginative book.”
-What I Want in a Husband Besides a Mustache, Diane Wakoski
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ولادیمر مایاکوفسکی عزیزم؛
اشعارت (“من هر آنجایم که درد آنجاست، زیرا که من بر هر دانه‌ی اشک مصلوب شده‌ام”)، قد بلندت، جنونت، آخرین نامه‌ات و گلوله‌ای که تو خودت خالی کردی رو خیلی دوست دارم.
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این عکس لارس فون تریه رو خیلی دوست دارم. نه بخاطر اینکه انقدر اتو کشیده تو آب وایساده. نه بخاطر حالت خنثی صورتش. بلکه بخاطر اینکه توی بازتابش پوزخندش رو می‌شه تشخیص داد.
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“Nature does not dictate what we should accept or how we should live our lives. Well into my procreating years, I am so far voluntarily childless, having squandered my biological resources reading and writing, doing research, helping friends and students, and jogging in circles – ignoring the solemn imperative to spread my genes. By the Darwinian standards, I am a horrible mistake, a pathetic loser. But I am happy to be that way. If my genes don’t like it, they can go jump in the lake.”
-How the Mind Works, Pinker
