Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Bukowski
Charles Bukowski has been on my must-read list for some time now. Perhaps it was an offhand comment by some author I admired — Michael Chabon, perhaps — how depressed he was when he realized he’d peeled through all of Bukowski’s work and would never again have the pleasure of reading one he’d never read before. Or, much earlier, someone told me Bukowski was the author behind Drugstore Cowboy. He wasn’t, but the name still stuck with me.
Tonight, while busting it on the elliptical trainer at the gym, I ripped through the first sixty pages of Bukowski’s semi-autobiographical Ham on Rye. Usually I don’t gravitate toward memoirs, since I prefer to think my own childhood was appalling and it always humbles me to discover that someone else had it much worse. Cue the Four Yorkshiremen. But Ham on Rye is something else altogether: a memoir with narrative drive.
Where does this narrative drive come from, that’s what I want to know. Is it my desire to see someone kick the narrator’s father’s brutal ass? Hopefully the narrator, Henry Chinaski, will do the kicking. Is it my secret wish to see his mother grow a spine, knowing full well that such people never grow a spine? No. Mostly, I want to see how a kid so damaged by his parents turns into a person who somehow, even if only tangentially, fits into society.
Below the cut, a poem by Bukowski that I found on some other guy’s blog. Enjoy.
“bluebird” — Charles Bukowski
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to
mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night
sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there,
I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man weep,
but I don’t weep,
do you?
***
What do you think?
Outside the gym, a cold front not scalding-hot front had rolled into Bakersfield. It’s 79F out there, whoop! I’d like to think Fall is early this year, but I know it’s just a tease.
D.
Can I use this to say I am wishing you and family well. I cannot find you. anyother way
There’s more than one bluebird IMO. Good post.
Hi Phyllis! Glad you found me. This blog should always be the best way to get hold of me, although I’m also on Facebook. We’re doing fine, thanks, and I hope you are well, too. Good to hear from you!
Thanks, Lucie 🙂
And here I always thought that bukowski was Polish bukkake.
It is always amazing what I run into when I surf. I enjoyed this post. Thank you.
Dean, eew. Just eew. And I’m sure if you searched “Polish bukkake” you’d find just that.
Johnny Ray, glad you stopped by.