After making my lemon meringue (shot of vanilla galliano, dash of cointreau, lemon slices, two shots pineapple juice, shaken over ice, served long) to take back to my room alone, I think of Bukowski.
For a long time I thought that his power was that he was unhappy, but didn’t give a fuck.
Now I know that his power was that, unhappy sometimes, like all of us, he was happy, gave a fuck what people thought, but kept on going.
He was an ugly old drunk who wrote poetry, hated his own work, got rejected time after time after time after time and still just… went on, found some happiness from what he did.
At every turn be shown for what he was and not fight it, accept it.
Became famous and still, live how he always had
He turned apathy into acceptance, graced nonchalance into zen.
There’s a bit in one of his books, he gets driven around to a few speaking gigs by a student, huge fan of his, says he’s his favourite living poet.
Bukowski fucks it up, gets wasted, continually, gives incoherent speeches and all the while his student grits his teeth, goes along, because he’s his idol.
Maybe I’m just another in a legion on misguided fucks worshipping a lecherous old barfly for all the wrong reasons.