I haven't been to the bookstore in a while. It's been historically proven more times than I can count to be highly detrimental to my financial wellbeing. More times than I can count, because apparently, when I walk into a bookstore, math in all forms ceases to exist. Except the written kind. Especially if there's pictures and graphs and cute little matrices that I just wanna squeeze and cut up into little squares and then sew 'em together and fall asleep wrapped up in their puzzles.
Today I went to the bookstore. I was looking for one book in particular. Within five minutes, I found another book that looked way more interesting, and I clutched this book to my chest for the next two hours and fifteen minutes. I decided at some point that what I wanted was poetry. My ex kind of ruined Neruda for me (by way of my husband, whose face goes crinkly at the thought that I once actually laid in a bed and enjoyed someone reading Neruda to me - which now that I think of it, kinda makes me wanna throw up a little, too), and everybody else was so fucking wordy (I KNOW, fer fucksake)...so I thought maybe Rumi but that was too existential...and then Bukowski looked up at me and smiled. Well, grinned. With a half-eaten methmouth. And I liked it.
And then of course the "I remember - I was living at...", and, "didn't I lend this one to Eddie? That motherfucker!" But mostly this:
Wow. A lot of this stuff really sucks, and I wasted a lot of time.
Then:
Oh, hey. Wait a minute. That's right.
I liked him because so much of what he wrote was absolute shit - and then HOLY SHIT THAT'S BRILLIANT.
I smiled back. No methmouth here, although I do have a partial denture and if there's any man I'd allow to see me without my denture, it's Chuck. But he's dead. So, there's another one for the To-Do list In Case of Accidental Discovery of Timespace Loophole Straight to a Horsetrack. And you fucking bet I'll be having a whiskey then.
Point: It was his refusal to let shitty writing stop him from writing that made him a writer.
I looked back down at the few other books I'd gathered. Kept the coin-collecting folders for my stepson, the bargain rack coffee table book about trains for the hubs (I am now questioning if he is indeed still an eight year old or if he's actually aging more rapidly now that the first digit of two has flipped to "5"). Glanced at "The March" pictorial I'd picked up because it's HISTORY! and I should commemorate that by BUYING a memory of it that's already in my head.
Went back to the first book I'd picked (this journey may have also been interrupted by a conversation with a man in the theology section who wanted to know if Christian-owned bookstores generally carry gnostic bibles)... Held onto that first book, ditched the pictorial, kept the aforementioned Other Stuff, grabbed a $7 Godiva chocolate bar that was NOT a $7 size but tasted like a million bucks, bought my shit and left.
On the drive home, thoughts of a conversation The Train Guy and I had yesterday about political correctness and how goddamn annoying it's become and CALM DOWN this is not about presidential politics. It's just... Since when do I give such a fuck about writing that Said Fucks have kept me from writing for nearly seven years.
Jesus Christ. (Incidentally, he's the guy I was thinking of reading about before I started salivating in a good way over Methmouth Horsetrack.)
And I got home, and I fell asleep watching a World War II documentary (spoiler alert: the colorization of the film does not add life to the subject, pun intended, 'cause stay with me on the nofucksgiving here...). Train Guy asks me sometimes why I watch "depressing stuff."
Well, because it reminds me that life could always be worse. On lighter days: those stupid "Housewives" shows. Same concept.
I woke up later and picked up the book. The first three pages wind up being on Bukowski, and how he ultimately became a writer by not giving a fuck about editing his life. And how that is the secret to happiness.
Here's to no longer giving a fuck.
(Now go buy this guy's book).
