When I’ve read an author and I’ve enjoyed the piece, I often end up reading a lot of his or her stuff at once. This is true for music as I’m still somewhat obsessed with and continue to devour the music of Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac.
I have to say, for Charles Bukowski, this isn’t true. I’ve had to space him out because he’s just so deep, in there, and makes me feel so much that it’s overwhelming and plays with my view of reality and society.
I work to try to find truth as he did. I don’t dare compare myself, of course, and obviously, however, he was getting his tires balanced and an alignment in the piece I read last night. I got my tires balanced yesterday, but I didn’t need the alignment. I have much better luck than Buk did in life, for sure.
Inspiration can be reading about an alcoholic taking a shit. He called himself a coward, but I just don’t see that at all. He’s kinda more of a hero to me, typing with his daughter’s plastic doll shoes next to the typewriter.