Charles Bukowski at the Huntington Library

 Huntington Library

Bukowski Exhibit

Bukowski's typewritter, old radio stuck on his favorite classical music station and of course his traditonal glass of wine!



Charles Bukowski

My Dear Love;

Charles Bukowski

A Terrible Need:

Some people simply search out unhappiness,

they'll scrounge it out in any given situation

taking any whim

any simple error

and then becoming hateful

vengeful.

don't they realize that

there's so little time?

and to mutilate it like this....

there's never

ever

any way

to recover

all that was

WASTED

There is enough treachery, hatred, violence

Absurdity in the average human being

To supply any given army on any given day.

And the best at murder are those who preach against it.

And the best at hate are those who preach love

And the best at war - finally - are those who preach peace

KING OF POETS

I think Andre Jordan wrote this about me

Since I am such a big fan of cemeteries, this called out to me, I changed a few things, you will notice as you read to fit moi :)

Grave Girl (or Woman)
I found her sitting on a gravestone.
She was talking to herself and cutting up handwritten letters with the biggest pair of scissors I had ever seen.
‘Hello’, I said.
‘Hello’, she smiled, nimbly snipping away.
‘Whom are you talking to?’
‘Everyone’ she smiled, waving her arms around the cemetery.
I smiled. ‘And why are you destroying those letters?’
‘I am not destroying them,’ she insisted, ‘I am just cutting all of the words out. I love words’
‘But why are you cutting all of the words out?’ I asked.
‘Because they are in the wrong order. And some of them,’ she theatrically sighed, ‘have been incorrectly spelt. What is your favourite word?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I could think of something magnificent. ‘I quite like oxymoron’.
‘Oh that’s a great word’ she laughed, ‘Isobella Monkton’s favourite word is cantankerous’.
‘Who is Isobella Monkton?’ I asked.
‘Isobella is over there,’ smiled the girl, gesturing towards a broken-nosed marble statue covered in ivy. ‘She sadly died in 1842’.
Whilst the girl was clearly loopy, I found her manner quite delightful, and so, not wishing to offend, I half-waved in Isobella’s direction and continued our conversation.
‘What is your favourite word?’
The girl carefully placed her giant scissors by her side and paused for a moment.
‘Oh I have so many favourites. It’s really hard to say, and it all depends upon my mood. Currently my favourite word is melancholy’.
‘Melancholy,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been melancholy all my life. In fact I was going to say melancholy but I thought you might be frightened by such a word and so I said oxymoron.
‘Why would I be frightened of the word melancholy?’ asked the girl, clearly perplexed.
‘Well,’ I tried to explain, ‘whenever you say words like that, people are a bit shocked. They don’t know what to do with themselves. The moment they hear such words they form an opinion of you – normally a misguided opinion of you. It’s like telling someone you once had the depressions, (Take note here that your dear blogger Wendie does in fact suffer from depression) or your favourite pop group is The Smiths. (Note, that I, Wendie, do NOT like the Smiths, let's substitute The Cure here)
The moment you say it, you can see their faces change. Fear consumes them and they either want to stop talking to you - pretend that you’re no longer there - or they want to run away’
‘I love The Smiths,’ cried the girl, laughing for the first time. (let's substitute The Cure here again)
‘Me too,’ I gushed. ‘What’s your favourite Smith’s song?’ (Cure Song)
And then it happened. The most wonderful thing in the whole wide world happened. In a cemetery. The girl began to sing.
"I found myself alone upon the raging sea, that stole the only girl I loved and drowned her deep inside of me"
Oh it was wondrous. Truly wondrous. I wanted her to go on forever. I wanted her to never stop. But the girl said she had other things to do and she needed to be alone for a while because ‘cutting out words and putting them back in the right order takes a lot of concentration’.
I said I understood. I would bother her no more.
But I was devastated. Truly devastated.
Would I ever see her again? Did she feel the ‘stuff in the air’?
I didn’t even know her name? There was so much I should have said.
So many things I wished I’d asked and now it was too late.
I had missed my one and only chance.
I closed the cemetery gate, lit a cheap-cigarette and slowly made my way back home.

Oh Andre, did you find me one day at one of my many favorite haunts? Did you see me taking pictures and rubbing or kissing the gravestones that I found particularly sweet, touching or beautiful? Do you see me sit quietly, sometimes talking to my newly found, yet long deceased friends? Do you like watching me put flowers down on the graves of those I don't know, just so I can feel that connection? Am I like a Cemetery Fairy finding peace and love and tranquility where others find sorrow? Were you there when Bukowski and I shared a small bottle of red wine I brought with me for just that occasion; me sipping it and pouring him a bit into his grave? Are you there when I leave notes for my beloved Bela Lugosi? Do you see me photographing myself on top of his grave? Did I look happy?

A Great Man in My Life

Oh Hank! Where would I be without you? This man is the most honest and therefore the most beautiful person I have ever encountered. I love to read his work. SOmetimes when I'm driving by all the industrial buildings and oil refinaries that dot the San Pedro landscape I feel like he did in that it is beautiful in it's own way. The beauty of the Concret Jungle...Hank was so right with so much he said. I'll leave you all with some of his words

People are not good to each other

I suppose they never will be

I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about it.....

People are not good to each other.

perhaps if they were

our deaths would not be so sad