isolation is the gift

i've been thinking about that last post and my comment about disinterest and i'm not sure the tone is right. i've been very fortunate, altho i did put the work in, with the likes of writing but at the same time, while i got published a lot, it never made me happy, to the extent that it actually affected my ability to do work and now, it's fair to say. i rarely, if ever, write poetry. plus i was pushing my form and i wasn't carrying anyone along with that, particularly when it came to sound work.

by lovely coincidence i came across the following quote from bukowski just recently. i'm feeling i'm finally at a stage where i can commit to isolation, commit to work, recognise the privilege i have in being able to do it, and just get on with it. i'm not bothered about publication, exhibiting, performance, any of that, just the work. the result? i'm happier than i've been since i was a little kid having a day drawing. 

If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.

then, by another coincidence i came across this video with marianne engberg which, much like the last one with terry riley, shows an artist well into their twilight years. but mainly i liked it because of the patience. the idea that one could take a picnic into their living room just to watch the light is, to me, a fabulous one. further, that notion of not taking short cuts with experimentation, finding your own way, really has resonance (and not just because i'll be doing more calotypes, solargrams etc this year). i struggle with time sometimes and i don't prioritise sitting and taking some time, something that not doing much in the way of sound recording these days hasn't helped. but it's a useful reminder that to work one has ot have space tp pause, to breathe.....

charles bukowski

i found myself getting irked the other day by coming across, again, bukowski described as the laureate of lowlife. i never really found hin so when i was younger - i liked a drink, had rubbish jobs, (still) love a day out at the horses - but i never considered myself a lowlife. and this before i started liking bukowski, a poetic 'i' seeming so excoriatingly honest compared to just about everyone else i knew in poetryland. and likewise, as i got older, i don't know anyone else who captures disappointment and loss quite so well. happy days then to discover these readings

predictably enough there's plenty in the comments that toher people shouldn't be reading, that their accent is wrong, that it doesn't sound 'lowlife' enough! one of these days i'd like to take a bunch of his later poems and have them read by older women, just to hear what that sounds like. you'd think it was a simple idea but poetry types don't like that sort of thing, not one bit.

all of which lead me to this guy and some hard spanish practice! 

the man with the beautiful eyes

 this bukowski animation via psyche  

charles bukowski

death of an idiot

he spoke to mice and sparrows
and his hair was white at the age of 16.
his father beat him every day and his mother
lit candles in the church.
his grandmother came while the boy slept
and prayed for the devil to let loose his hold upon
him
while his mother listened and cried over the
bible.

he didn’t seem to notice young girls
he didn’t seem to notice the games boys played
there wasn’t much he seemed to notice
he just didn’t seem interested.

he had a very large, ugly mouth and the teeth
stuck out
and his eyes were small and lusterless.
his shoulders were slumped and his back was bent
like an old man’s.

he lived in our neighborhood.
we talked about him when we got bored and then
went on to more interesting things.
he seldom left his house. we would have liked to
torture him
but his father
who was a huge and terrible man
tortured him for
us.

one day the boy died. at 17 he was still a
boy. a death in a small neighborhood is noted with
alacrity, and then forgotten 3 or 4 days
later.

but the death of this boy seemed to stay with us
all. we kept talking about it
in our boy-men’s voices
at 6 p.m. just before dark
just before dinner.

and whenever I drive through that neighborhood now
decades later
I still think of his death
while having forgotten all the other deaths
and everything else that happened
then.

charles bukowski

Nirvana

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
forward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.

charles bukowski

is the ideal poet after a weekend's drinking. but which to choose. in the end choices always suggest themselves so the following came from a poem antonia posted, suggesting a landscape far warmer and more pleasant than the one we're currently not enjoying. typically, bukowski views the cicada differently....

cicada

writers love to use the word
'cicada' in a poem.
it makes them believe that
they are there, that they
have done it.
every time i see this word
in a poem, i think, damn
it, haven't the editors
caught on yet?
that it's a con?
a way to milk the game?

and look at me:
here i'm using it:
'cicada.'

well, that means that
this poem will surely get
published.

see?

it works.


was bukowski ever like pagnol?

"...They were no poets. This led me to conclude that I was one, that I had been stupid not to realize it earlier, and that I had to begin my work as early as the following day if I wanted to achieve glory and fortune by the age of twenty. And I imagined myself on a picture taken in a sumptuous study, surrounded by precious books, posing beneath a sculpture of my own bust crowned with a laurel wreath."