Christmas Tree Bust, Book Score.

Carole and I used to drive up to the mountains every year to buy a Christmas tree at a choose and cut tree farm. But we fell out of the tradition a few years ago and don't go every year anymore. We decided to make it two in a row and drove into the high country yesterday to hit some tree farms and find the perfect tree. Alas, all but one of the farms were closed. So we went to that one and discovered to our horror that a five-foot tree would run $60. That's insane and we drove away with no tree.

Instead we hit a couple of thrift stores on the way out of the mountains and stopped at a state park to do a little hiking. The first thrift store we stopped at was a good thing, because I scored a copy of the old poetry magazine The Outsider. Specifically, the double issue limited edition hardback version of 4 & 5, featuring a tribute to Patchen, and work by Bukowski, Rexroth, Ginsberg, and too many others to list. After I've read it I'll likely sell it. It's missing the paper wrapper that originally came with it, plus the pressed flower that was inserted. But other than that it's a decent copy. Not sure how many remain of the original 500 copies, and I sit here and wonder how the hell a copy ended up in a tiny thrift store high in the mountains of North Carolina in a place no one ever heard of.

You take what you can get in life.

The Outsider 4-5. With work by my favorite, Charles Bukowski. Score!

A doe and fawn see us and try to figure out if they should run away.

Yes, run! Wait...no. Yes. No. Maybe...

Little Glade Pond all frozen and frosty on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

A sliding rock cascade on a creek in Stone Mountain State Park.

Be Yourself, Not Like Someone Else.

Most writers I know are self-conscious and pretty darned critical of themselves and their work. This is a good thing in some ways, but should be kept to a minimum. I also know some writers who are totally ego-mad and who do not look upon their work with a critical eye at all. This is also a bad thing, except in the rare occasions in which they actually deserve the praise they lavish on themselves. But this latter is an extreme rarity.

For years I would worry that I was not only not creating fiction as well as I could, but that my work didn't measure up to what I read from my favorite authors. This is probably the worst thing that a writer can do to himself. The chances are that your favorite writers are pretty damned good and display tremendous skills and stunning insight. (There are exceptions. You may have no taste and your favorite writers are awful, in which case you're safe and sound.)

The thing is--to make a baseball analogy--some authors are like Hank Aaron and can crush the ball out of the park on a regular basis. There are those rare dudes who can slap a homer all of the damned time. These folk are rare. For me, such folk are Hemingway, Bradbury, McCarthy, Gifford, Bukowski. Don't try to match what they do, because likely you're going to either end up producing thin, watery copies of their styles; or you are going to fail miserably and create something that doesn't deserve publication.

The past couple of months I have been reading a lot of science fiction from the 1950s, much of it written by some truly talented authors; men with well-deserved reputations for excellence. However, I was surprised when most of these stories were not the sparkling gems that I had read from their pens over the years. Slowly, as I read the volumes, I realized that in general they wrote stuff that was entertaining, but mediocre. They were professionals in every way, so the stories were almost never what I would call "bad". But mostly they were only barely over the line into territory that I would call "fun", but hardly brilliant. And definitely not home runs. A couple of triples were in there. Some doubles. A whole lot of singles. And a few walks.

So here's what I took out of all of this.

Don't try to slam a homer out of the park every time you sit down at the old screen. Sure, it happens. And it happens a lot if you're the equivalent of the best among us. But if you're not, then just sit there and work on the project and get it out to the markets where it will hopefully see print. Be happy with sliding into third, or getting a stand-up double, or a close reach to first base on a bobbled catch in the outfield is even okay.

Work at it. Be a journeyman. Hone your skills. Eventually, you'll hit some homers. You might even become a star.

The Crazies

I’m a writer. I have a number of friends who are writers, and an even larger number of acquaintances who are writers. There are a lot of us.

Unfortunately, these days, the nation seems to be packed cheek by jowl with “writers”. Everyone once wanted to be a writer. And now it seems as if everyone is a “writer”. Unfortunately, almost none of these folk bother to develop any skills, and the new world of self-published ebooks has been loosed upon the marketplace like a flesh-eating bacterial pandemic.

Initially I wondered what made all of these horrible people want to try to push their worthless stuff onto the rest of us. What could motivate these subnormals? At first I was truly mystified in a naïve sort of way. Because why would you publish this kind of awful material if you weren’t crazy?

Finally, of course, I realized that it’s all based on an unhealthy form of narcissism and that these people are crazy. Yes, this is a type of insanity and it’s running like Captain Trips through the world of publishing and seems as though it will be some kind of extinction event, just as that fictional disease was portrayed brilliantly by Mr. King.

I now meet people casually who tell me that they are writers. When this first began to occur I would ask them who published their work, until I found that every single time I asked this question the answer was that they were all self-published. So I stopped asking. To this date I have yet to read a single self-published work that is not absolutely awful in every way. (And I admit that I stopped reading all self-published books some time back.)

Oh, well.

I continue to write and to seek publication in the normal, traditional manner. There is no desire in me to arbitrarily decide that everything I pen is worthy of print. I always hope so, of course, but I am willing to work to achieve publication without dictating to everyone else that this goal has been reached. Where are the arbiters? Where are the standards? A kind of anarchism has entered the art form that is harmful rather than creative. The new system has constricted literature instead of expanding it. The bar has been cranked down so low that any creep and every moron can crawl easily over it on a track of slime; and all the creeps and morons have done just so.

One should not wonder at all that the situation is a sign of rampant narcissism. The act of creating art and the work of submitting those creations is a kind of self-centered practice. Admittedly, who are any of us to think we can entertain or interest the rest of us? That was always the case with writers and other artists, but at least in days past there were those standards I mentioned before. Those are gone. Pfft. Kaput.

But to understand the current situation in publishing, all you have to do is look around at western media. Crazy people abound, all of them screaming “Look at me!”; and far too many of them are held up in a positive light.

Alas.

Well, I'll keep plugging away. Luddite? Maybe. My keyboard is my workstation. My words are my tools. When I’m not out exploring the mountains and forests, the rivers and prairies, you can find me here. I’ll be busy writing, but not necessarily publishing.

;

"Look at me! LOOK AT ME!!!

“Bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it”
― Charles Bukowski, Tales of Ordinary Madness.

Did Bukowski Have it Right?

One of my favorite writers is the late Charles Bukowski. He was hardly my hero (I don't have any heroes). But he was an extremely talented and insightful writer whose work is unique in modern fiction and poetry.

He was definitely not a nice man. One has to often separate the art from the artist. Charles Bukowski is a classic example of this fact. He was a drunken, self-centered, sometimes violent asshole. But, Holy Humping Jove, he could write beautiful words.

One thing that I noticed very early on in Bukowski's work is that he didn't seem to really give much of a damn about anything but observation and getting the word down on the page. And that used to bother me about him. Sometimes, it still does. I mean...how could he not care? At least care enough to talk about things in specifics. If he was poor and lived in grinding poverty and was mashed down like a soft mammal under the foot of Society, why didn't he take up a position to decry these things?

And, of course, he did explain why.

Because to do so is pointless.

Bukowski was content (it seems) to sit in his darkened rooms and tap out the magical word. This is the way it is, boys and girls. Deal with it. Dig it. That is all.

Maybe it's a problem to watch and care. Bukowski observed and commented, but took no position, was the weirdly passionate observer who was also the dispassionate observer. If he does sometimes complain and point an accusatory finger, you have to squint myopically to catch just the barest shadow of give-a-shit.

Perhaps Bukowski was right.

The folk in charge are in charge. They cannot be dislodged. Better to just sit in that comfortable room with a refrigerator full of beer and a typewriter and watch it all go down and chuckle at the joke of it all.

Shit. Maybe so.

Magic.

Musings on History

I read widely. I'm not an educated man and I'm not particularly intelligent, but I do read. It has always been a sore point for me that my reading has rarely approached anything like a discipline. I will read whatever I fancy whenever I chance upon something that seems relatively entertaining. I've rarely pushed myself, intellectually, so there's obviously a weakness there. But at least I'm not (wholly) ignorant.

Among the many things that I read is history. I read the history of Mankind that's written in books, and I read of the history of Mother Earth written in the fossil record, and I read the history of the Universe written in the stars wheeling all around us in the (almost) void. No matter how small and silly the history, or how vast and far-flung, I get a kick out of what has been and the musings of where it may go.

The only histories we can comment on definitively are the ones already written.

Every once in a while I'll read some bit by a popular writer who will claim--after a fashion--that he predicted or somehow foresaw recent developments in the history of human civilization. I always read these claims with interest, and then pour upon them all of the disgust and contempt that is mine to bestow. The arrogance and self-delusion at work in this kind of claim must come easy for some people. But even so, it astounds me. I think that it comes from a feeling or hope that individual humans have any influence at all upon what will be.

Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The reason for these own musing of mine are a recent article (widely published) that a certain man (widely respected by many--but not by me) who claims that he saw the so-called "Arab Spring" coming and--like some kind of Messiah--had been proclaiming its coming for years. The social elite does produce some disgusting individuals with overblown opinions of themselves. Such claims are always so much hot air. No man can predict, but there are many who can record. And, sadly, a few who make insane claims.

Among my favorite writers are men who retreated from thinking that anything one could say or do could influence the world at large. George Carlin comes to mind when I read things like that recent article. Kurt Vonnegut occurs to me when I see exclamation of coming utopia. These are men who knew that there was no pie-in-the-sky. Foremost among the writers I admire, I think of Charles Bukowski at times like this.

The Great Bukowski.

Bukowski had started his adult life as a Nazi sympathizer but quickly mellowed into a kind of amused apathy toward his species, and retreated to the wine bottle and a life of inspired musing that resulted in volumes of brilliant poetry and prose. What the heck? When it comes to human beings, there really is no reason to be optimistic, and certainly no basis for claiming prescience.

For there is one thing about Homo sapiens that I--and anyone else--can say. It does have a future, and that future is extinction.

A reminder of the final history that awaits us all.

To Continue: Bradd Parton

For the past few years I've been amused and amazed by the artwork of Bradd Parton. I'd see him at one of my favorite comic book shows, Charlotte Comi Con here in Charlotte. Bradd does these fantastic illustrations, all of which incorporate the entire alphabet within the drawings.

Recently, he pulled a name out of a hat--culled from his online Facebook friends--and my name was the lucky draw. As the winner, I got to choose the subject of a new Bradd Parton illustration. Since my favorite modern American writer is Charles Bukowski...I chose Buk.

The following artwork arrived in my mailbox yesterday, and today I am posting that art again, along with the key to where each letter is hidden within the illustration.

The Key.

If you, too, wish to buy or commission a phenomenally original piece of artwork from Mr. Parton, you can contact him through his website, Alpha-Sketch!

Some bonus illustrations that arrived with my commission.

Art

Bukowksi by Bradd Parton. Details tomorrow.

Wasted Day!

Completely wasted day. Crap!

For three weeks now I've been trying to remove the tires on my Casita trailer. Whoever put the tire on the right side last time (not I), put one of the lug nuts on so tight that it double-threaded. Not only that, the nut was stripped so that a lug wrench won't grip it any longer.

I tried everything. WD40, wrenches, pliers, lock-tools, hammers, cold chisels...you name it. That lug nut will NOT come free. So today I pissed away my one day off for the week as I have done the past THREE weeks to try to get that goddamned lug nut off. One of my pals told me to just go ahead and bite the bullet and used a cold chisel and sledge hammer to bust the nut to bits. "Should take about fifteen minutes of hard work," he said.

Oy.

After forty-five minutes of smashing and cutting and hacking at that bastard lug nut all I ended up doing was creating what looks like melted chrome all over the threaded lug. Shit!

I have a couple of other options, but it will take my day off next week to see it through. The week after that we're supposed to leave for vacation. But of course that's not happening until I get that goddamned lug nut off so that I can get new freaking tires for the trailer!

Shit.

I could have gone hiking today.

We're not even ants.

Bukowski was right.

The Patron Saint of Buk

Like many people, I hate my job. Well...it's not the job itself that I fucking hate, but the folk in management. Pea-brains and sadists, the lot of them.

However, I'm glad I have a job during this freaking hideous Bush Depression. I'd hate to be out in the Republican-ravaged economy searching for work that pays well. It ain't gonna happen.

Today I started in on a book packed with stores and essays by Charles Bukowski. I have to say--in the past twenty years or so--Bukowski is my favorite writer. As with myself, he was an employee of the US Postal Service. He served two different times in two different capacities. First he was--as I--a letter carrier. I think that lasted two and a half years before he just walked away from it. Then, years later, desperate for gainful employment and fearing that he was going to be homeless again, he landed a job as a routing clerk. He went eleven and a half years on that one.

Fortunately, he found a patron who was willing to pay him to quit the Post Office and write full time. Or just hang around and not write. It was a sweet deal. But what he did was walk away from the USPS forever and begin to write full time, producing a vast and impressive body of work. I was stunned to learn that he wrote his first novel--POST OFFICE--in nineteen days! Nineteen days! It's a true work of art and to realize that he wrote it in less than three weeks...damn.

For myself, I can't quit the USPS. For one thing, I don't have a patron. For another, I have a family and a certain lifestyle that they expect. So unlike good old Buk I can't just sign the resignation papers and walk away from that place.

But my hat's off to Buk for being able to do it. And double for the patron who allowed it to happen.

What I'm reading right now. A nice volume of uncollected prose from Bukwoski. Carole spilled some paint sample on it. It dried okay and I think I can scrape it off the cover...but you know what? I think it's appropriate, somehow. I'll leave it that way.

The Absurd

I've never wondered about the so-called "meaning of life". There isn't one. To assume that there is a meaning to life is to exhibit a selfishness that's hard to describe. I have a difficult time understanding such a degree of self-centered pathology.

About ten years ago I began to read the works of Charles Bukowski. His poetry and his fiction and his essays captured me in a way that the words of few others have been able to do. In some ways, it was his style of writing that grabbed me and held my attention. There is something so deceptively simple about it that it throws you off. Because it isn't simple--it only seems that way. His stories and novels display a level of intelligence and insight that I've yet to encounter in just such a way anywhere else.

Bukowski wrote about real people. The rich and the famous rarely enter into his world. This is good, because they rarely enter into my immediate world, either. Bukowski's world is an insular one, but he wrote with a strange kind of compassion for other people, despite the outward impression of what most readers see as Bukowski's antipathy toward his fellow man.

The older I get the more despairing I become of the fate of our species. We seem bound and determined to head straight down the hole of Oblivion into extinction. And, as we all know, that's a one-way trip. The greatest bummer of it all is that we will take so many other fellow creatures down into that sucking hole with us.

Alas.

Bukowski seems to have come to his same conclusion. He understood Human Nature for what it was, but he also understood that the greater force of Nature was going to have the last say-so. The Big Storm is going to well up over the walls we've built around us and overwhelm everyone and the lightning will strike. We're going down for the count. It's just a matter of when, not if.

Yes, the older I get the more my admiration grows for old Bukowski. He wasn't misanthropic. He just knew the real deal. Bukowski's gone, now. But he went down laughing. I admire that. You have to.

Working the Words

Writing is probably the most inexact art form.

As a writer I have an image in my mind, or an emotion I wish to convey. I go to the keyboard and attempt to translate these images and ideas into the written English word. It's tough work.

Depending on the strength of the subject I can hope for something approximating what's going on in my mind finding any success in the translation. I write pretty much every day, and every time I work on my writing I find that I'm constantly struggling to make these ideas find their translation from thought to the page.

I'm a better writer now than I was at any point in my youth. I'm a better writer now than I was when I was in my twenties. I'm a better writer now than I was yesterday. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Over those years I've found that I use less words to convey my thoughts onto the page. At times, it seems that I've been slowly making the transition from short story writer to poet. Save for the fact that I enjoy working in the novel form, I would probably have long ago turned my hand exclusively to poetry. Those guys seem to have achieved what so many novelists can only fail to prove.

Once, I heard James Dickey say that poetry was the highest calling to which Mankind can aspire. At the time, I dismissed that sentiment. But now I think that he was right. To crystallize an emotion into a handful of words is something unique and beautiful. The longer I live the more I find myself admiring the writers who struggle with a few lines to convey the things foremost in their minds.

Buk, Rhymes with Puke

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.

American Patriots Suck Ass

My close friend, Roy—the only writer friend I have whose opinion I completely respect—sent me this by way of a reminder and a much-needed kick in the ass:

there is only one place to write and that is ALONE at a typewriter. a writer who has to go INTO the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. I have seen enough factories, whorehouses, jails, bars, park orators to last 100 men 100 lifetimes. to go into the streets when you have a NAME is to go the easy way—they killed Thomas and Behan with their LOVE, their whiskey, their idolatry, their cunt, and they half-murdered half a hundred others. WHEN YOU LEAVE YOUR TYPEWRITER YOU LEAVE YOUR MACHINE GUN AND THE RATS COME POURING THROUGH. when Camus began giving speeches before the academies his writing died. Camus did not begin as a speechmaker, he began as a writer; it was not an automobile accident that killed him.
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
Notes of a Dirty Old Man

So, you empty-headed dirtbags, you racists who think you’re patriotic heroes, you numbskull religionists who think you’re deep, you idiot selfish moron Libertarians who think you’re smart—to Hell with the whole lot of you.

I write, and I’ll be damned if I have the time to so much as crap on you stupid flag-waving, bible-humping, goose-stepping, Arab-hating, corporate butt-licking pinheads.