Here’s what’s going on inside:
It’s time for a change. The look is too stark, too white, a promoter of milquetoast. Apprehension is allowed to run willy-nilly while its synonymic buddy Trepidation quivers and pees in the corners. There is a scarcity of attitude and therefore a deficit of it-ness. There’s an absence of color and therefore a lack of black.
Change has been happening. The feel, the aura, has been working itself out since the sites and aims days. Feels like Whippet on the way to Tibetan Mastiff. Maybe this is just the boof and whimper of a small dog’s dream, but something is happening. Something’s working its way up from the silt in pangs timed seven hours apart.
In my twenties when I got this feeling, like something significant was going on, I only felt sent for but unable to go, as my grandmother used to say in so many words. I only felt an impatience that I couldn’t nail down and a sense of hope that this whatever-it-was would provide its own vehicle for whatever-it-wanted-to-do. That was in the vicinity of Confusion, this is in the infinity of Blogworld.
I may join Mrs. Giovanna in the cuckoo’s nest, put her blue/black birds in the header of a page as dark as the Club De Ville, and bear upon it the fruits of creative writing as taught by Bukowski. Or, from an aside of thick grey, nearly black, I may fix my one green eye on the temporariness of life and the other permanently dilated eye on the wisdom of a conventional teacher. Either way, I’ve got to find a way to not try to be.
If I taught creative writing, Charles Bukowsi
now, if you were teaching creative
writing, he asked, what would you
I’d tell them to have an unhappy love
affair, hemorrhoids, bad teeth
and to drink cheap wine,
to keep switching the head of their
bed from wall to wall
and then I’d tell them to have
another unhappy love affair
and never to use a silk typewriter
avoid family picnics
or being photographed in a rose
read Hemingway only once,
stare at photos of Gertrude Stein
and read Sherwood Anderson in bed
while eating Ritz crackers,
realize that people who keep
talking about sexual liberation
are more frightened than you are.
listen to E. Power Biggs work the
organ on your radio while you’re
rolling Bull Durham in the dark
in a strange town
with one day left on the rent
after having given up
friends, relatives and jobs.
never consider yourself superior and /
and never try to be.
have another unhappy love affair.
watch a fly on a summer curtain.
never try to succeed.
don’t shoot pool.
be righteously angry when you
find your car has a flat tire.
take vitamins but don’t lift weights or jog.
then after all this
reverse the procedure.
have a good love affair.
and the thing
you might learn
is that nobody knows anything–
not the State, nor the mice
the garden hose or the North Star.
and if you ever catch me
teaching a creative writing class
and you read this back to me
I’ll give you a straight A
right up the pickle
bukowski and typewriter from http://www.corneliastreetcafe.com/data/Bukowski_W_Typewriter.jpg
bukowski poem clipped from http://www.misanthropytoday.com/if-i-taught-creative-writing-by-charles-bukowski/