Obsession

we've got a world full of dreams and sometimes

when I can't sleep

and my mind won't think of anything at all then I

spend the night

looking up at the dark ceiling.

-Charles Bukowski

When I read Bukowski for the first time, it was like meeting my soul mate. I was a seventeen year old blonde in high school living in suburban Maryland, but somehow this dirty, vulgar old man became something that I know will be a lifelong obsession. I have about eight of his poetry books on a bookshelf and I keep the one I am currently reading close by me. I used to spend a few days solely reading them but now I realize, since he's dead, that eventually there will not be any more new ones to read so I savor them for longer now.

I've written poems about him even after I stopped writing poetry. He is the only thing I feel like writing about now poetry-wise since he was the one that inspired me to write in the first place.

Like any adolescent obsession, my obsession with Bukowski has lessened, although it seems that in my darkest times I imagine him, looking up at the dark ceiling, feeling as alone as I do.

One thing I love and need in writing is honesty, and I have never seen any other author match how honest he is in his writing. When I say honest, I do not mean non-fiction, I mean just honest about the human condition. Many authors masquerade their own horrible emotions through outlandish characters so as to hide their own insecurities and terrible thoughts. Or sometimes, these things will be written off as a joke. He had the courage to tell the truth, which is so rare nowadays, but I bet people in other lifetimes felt the same way about this lack of courage, both from their writers and from each other.

One good thing about blogging is that I'm able to write all these thoughts down and then I can erase them right away, and forget. I have probably erased about five paragraphs just from this post alone. It's comforting. Most of our thoughts aren't real winners, and this post is no exception, but sometimes adding a little permanence, however futile and meaningless, is just what is needed to ease our troubled or discouraged thoughts.

One more Charles Bukowski excerpt for the road:

I promised myself never to write old man poems

but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-

cause I've long gone past using myself and there's

still more left

here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from

the typer

pour another glass and

insert

make love to the fresh new whiteness