Christmas poem to a man in jail (Extract) Bukowski
Poetry does seem to be getting better, more human, the clearing up of the language has something to do with it
But writing's one thing, life's another, we seem to have improved the writing a bit but life (ours and theirs) doesn't seem to be improving very much.
Maybe if we write well enough and live a little better life will improve a bit just out of shame.
Maybe the politicians, the generals, the judges, the priests, the police, the pimps, the businessmen have been too strong? I don't like that thought but when I look at our pale and precious artists, past and present, it does seem possible.
(people don't like it when I talk this way. Chinaski, get off it, they say, you're not that great. But hell, I'm not talking about being great.)
I'm not defending my work (to you or to him) I'm defending my right to do it in the way that makes me feel best.
And I don't believe in perfection, I believe in keeping the bowels loose so I've got to agree with my critics when they say I write a lot of shit.
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You're sad because you're sad. It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep.
Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget.
Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child.
My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you're trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car,
and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside you head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are.
A Lennon tidbit came to mind: What do you think?, he asked about the
songs from Double Fantasy, and I said, they tell your story, it's
great. & that seemed ok~
"We're control freaks," our hostess replied instantly. "It comes from being a small country with not much power. We have to control what we can."
When it comes to producing absurdly appealing light fixtures and shockingly comfortable desk chairs, that Danish form of displacement is clearly a very good thing. When it comes to hosting a world-changing summit, the Danish need for control is proving to be a serious problem.
The real world is empty of separated things, these, are product of the thought and not of the reality. Even though Reality is inexpressible, it can be experienced: a vivency. And if it is possible to live or experience it without our concepts over or about it, then we break the breach between the one who knows and the known.
Since To Know Reality is To Be Reality, then you can say as Ken Wilber: "Reality as a Level of Consciousness or Reality as only Mind".
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