One of my very favorite authors was Charles Bukowski. He considered himself the equal of Ernest Hemingway. I agree. His work is amazingly easy to read and impossible to duplicate effectively. I've seen others try. I know better than to attempt that.
One of the messages his work sent to me is that this life is oh-so-freaking short. All we have that is our own is our time. So don't let other people dick around with your time. Just don't. It's like allowing a tick to settle in your armpit, or a leech to attach itself to your ankle. Maybe it's worse than that.
Today, I pissed away almost an entire day doing nothing so much as allowing my time to be stolen. My life force to be siphoned off for...well, for nothing.
I'll crack open a beer this evening and raise a toast to Charles Bukowski.
Buk.
Rhymes with puke.
2 comments:
I've never read any Buk. Any suggestions on where to start?
Just about anywhere, actually. POST OFFICE is a good place. Grab any of his collections, poetry or short stories. He was quite prolific. The quality of his work remained good throughout his life.
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