Charles Bukowski

I realize there are a lot of opinions, both pro and con, on Charles Bukowski. Irrespective, I can’t help loving this guy. I read, a lot…I mean an oddly excessive amount, and in everything I’ve read, I’ve never read anything so real as the things he writes. He makes no effort at concealing himself. There is no attempt at making himself look heroic, or wounded, or good, or bad, or anything. He wrote his honest experience and thoughts. Sometimes, it’s uncomfortable or embarrassing. Sometimes it’s breathtaking. Always it’s real, and in a world of replicas, I think real is the finest compliment I can give. My favorite is Ham on Rye…if you want a starting point to read him.

The act of falling in love requires a level of deep intimacy. Once you open yourself, your past, your heart, your soul to another; once you allow them to fully enter your present, and become a part of your imagined future – you are changed forever. It is irrevocable. I had a bit of a debate with a friend who is of the wonderful opinion that love has a shelf life. It can be amazing, but that we love “as long as life allows.” That we should appreciate the magic, accept the end magnanimously, and move forward with open mind and heart for the next experience, because it too, can be magic. I think that’s beautiful…but I can’t do it. My experience tells me most people can’t do it. The price of love is loss, always. But, being human means we can always feel that that loss came to soon, was unfair, or…was an illness from which we can never recover.