There are times when feel fucked and in the middle of nowhere. For example, when I found out I had taken a train to Belarus and not Odessa. In these moments I sometimes think of writers, artists, freaks close to me who were adrift on the road. As corny as it is, it gets my thoughts going in a different direction. So I try to decide, which were the most fucked? Who faced the most adversity? The Beats, of course, come to mind most often, and then Henry Miller and the Expat Generation. But I almost always forget about Bukowski, the odd man out. Yet he is maybe the most impressive story.
He had no connections or influence to speak of but still managed to scrape by for ten years, from flop house-to-flop house, stretching his money to write. And he was a repugnant figure, apparently repellent to anyone but the saltiest bar fly. Yet he went about his business without the support of peers as in previous generations, let alone the social narcotics of the cyber world. He must have had some serious fortitude. I find him beautiful and repulsive at the same time.
It is raining in Lviv today, so for Karma I have been sharing some video with Youtube. I am about through with the final bits of a feature length Bukowski documentary. Below is a clip of him reading "Born into This."