by Charles Bukowski
sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
And so, a little Mozart seems in order.
I find it kind of amusing in a way that I seem to like Bukowski so much, and share him so often here. Maybe you have to sift through his work a bit to find the bits that speak to you, but this one, above, sure speaks to me. And it all sounds offhand, but who else would think to say, the newspaper of horror, or talk about backing the car out of the garage into life itself. And then thinking about each day as having its own descriptor. How often have you found yourself at the end of a day, especially a work day, naming it? A dull day, a rare day. More dull ones than rare ones. But something to be said for the dull ones, too, right?
And so. These fall days. Rare days. So full of colour.
A few of Ace for his fans out there :)
This one I call "Zen Ace."
He's meditating on something here, for sure.
The delicate weedy bits.
The scruffier gone to seed bits.
And ending with a few of the utility corridor. Complete with utilities.