Overcast, gray, glassy skies. Preternatural spring weather: snow? So, Bukowski comes to mind.
I was living in temporary digs in San Francisco, 1988. My first play, “Boink,” was being produced in a One Act Festival for new playwrights at Merry The Dog Theater. As director, I’d asked non-actors to play the lead roles: Danika, a strip club dancer in North Beach took the role of the catatonic wife, who delivered nearly all her lines from the bed. Ted, the painter, was the husband, frenetic and rather like a clown caricature. Steve was the “narrator,” delivering lines from the edges of darkness. The play was a big hit, as was the entire festival. Through that experience I met many more strange characters and one fellow, Jake, who’s favorite poet was Bukowski. He was legendary at that time, especially among fringe and workingman poets. Bukowski’s legacy almost proceeded him. I was fortunate to see Bukowski read at City Lights and also later, in Los Angeles, and was blown away by his simplicity and honest, raw words. His straightforward-no-bullshit approach. Those yellow notebooks. Hunched over, propped up against those pillows.
Today I read “Are You Drinking?” by Charles Bukowski:
Are you ill with life? Have you ever been to a horseracing track? How do you find the sun when there is no sign of it for days?