When you are unkind to yourself, you will know no worse, and deserve no better.
Charles Bukowski. ‘Betting on the muse.’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“His form is ungainly - his intellect small -”
(So the bellman would often remark)
“But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.”

He would joke with hyenas, returning their stare
With an impendent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
“Just to keep up its spirits,” he said.

+

“As to temper the Jubjub’s a desperate bird,
Since it lives in perpetual passion:
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd -
It is ages ahead of the fashion:”

Lewis Carroll. ‘The hunting of the Snark.’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“It’s like today when I see kids who go to film schools, and writers who say that by page 13 you have to have this happen, and by page 32 you have to have this happen, and by page 106 it has to be over, blah blah blah. Well, we didn’t have all those rules, and it’s not that we even broke them, because they didn’t exist. Now I think these kids are hampered by rules - not that they can’t think beyond them, just that they don’t go beyond them, because they are axiomatic of what you do. I think there have been too many screenwriting schools and too many books, and people think that’s what they must do. They treat it the same way they treat mathematics, and it’s wrong.

Robert Altman. ‘Altman on Altman.’

Uploaded these quck clips from an extra interview on the Burden Of Dreams dvd.

A friend gave this to me a few weeks ago. It hangs on my bathroom door. DANGER!

Felt an urge to upload this. I WANT THE OPERA HOUSE!

I was given a new bed a small while ago. The thing is a palace. And beneath this forthcoming rant is my old mattress. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but sensed it would be good to keep. For guests I suppose. Soon I realized it served another purpose. I spray painted this face on it, propped it up in my kitchen. It is to the left of my fridge in front of this strange abandoned pantry. A couple of days ago, I had absolutely no food, I felt like I was starving, but that would have taken a few more days. When I opened this door I found three cans of string beans. They were from before I even moved into my apartment four years ago. This was a success. I was nervous. But it worked out fine. I use the mattress as a punching bag. I punch the party animal out while I play a best of Patsy Cline tape at full volume.

I’m never angry when I do it. I hardly ever act out of emotion.  Any violence in me is most likely directed at myself.  Although directing violence towards other people is often a veiled way of attacking yourself.  But I have no time for that.  Anyhow, the sense of your physical being and the feeling of your strength growing is a feeling that cannot be denied when you punch a spray painted mattress to Patsy Cline. And when you run head first at the rest of the world I suppose it’s a good idea to have someone to back you up. Even if that person is an appendage that spreads out from your neck and swivels with your spine.

The mattress is canvas though, and it tends to rip at the knuckles. Which is strange. Not the feeling, but the reactions. Sometimes people see a bruised knuckle and a weird certain respect emanates from them. And in other situations, say the library, talking to a very nice lady while your asking about where to find a Federico Garcia Lorca book of poetry it sends the wrong signal. But in the end everyone’s reactions are wrong, though sensible. The nervousness or fear lies in the fact that if someone is willing to say this or do this, what else are they capable of.  But everyone sees the world through their own eyes, and everyone is full of manipulative and selfish secrets and dark passions and dark fears that they spend half their lives trying to hide.  So they assume your secrets and lies must be of a darkness the depths outer space  could never fathom.   But finally I am truly truthful, even if exxxagerating or lying.

This is a major flaw in the understanding of things, though you cant understand anything fully, me or you. If you are a vessel through which you see things, how you relate to things, and you don’t fully understand yourself, then your judgments are lost and misguided.  But the most misguided always seem to have an urge to lead.   Anyways, I’ve made gloves out of old sweat shirt sleeves. I hate that your the toughest if you pretend to be, or the smartest if you pretend to be, or the most sensitive, or the most together, or the most apart. I hate how people care about other peoples perceptions, and how they perceive other people and themselves. You should know whats right, and strive to first satisfy that initial instinct, then worry about the others after, not the other way around.

Anyways, I am deep into the beers, and I’m rambling. This is the Punching bag. His name is Steve Sr., and he feels no pain.

Get on my feet you filthy animals. Embrace my stinkers. The name of these shoes is The Flamingo.

Here are some new searches that have lead people to my site, and for the most part, the majority of them. This is about 60 percent of the overall searches for the last 30 days. I don’t know what to make of it, and wonder what people who are searching for these things make of my site when they get to it. I sense a perversion so extreme, a perversion that simple profanity could never satisfy. A man could really start to question himself after looking at a thing like this. Be gone ding dongs, I don’t need your kind around here. Or is it me, should I really look to deep, should I really pose the question, is this now an extension of me, some twisted representation, some sick new appendage.  No, I have no time for these misguided miscreants. Their confusion will not rupture my sense. And anyways I have far larger questions that need answering, even though, I am the biggest thing in the universe.

SEARCHES.

giantess panty prisoner
veiled girl caressed my penis
rape section jacket
fucking bitches
afrika hart fuck
“giantess” “my head” slowly pussy
young drunk cunts moviez
rape moviez
pantyhose beat us
tiny walrus
kinski lick my ass
nikotine spray
ski patrol
“mick ronson” hepatitis
diary of a genius
i once asked a gypsy girlfriend
she must strangle him with her thighs
her thick legs strangled me
when the world ends, this is all that will be left
doverman sex organ
strange guy
woman’s blog+killed wasp
“such sweet sorrow”

From Betting on the muse. By Charles Bukowski.

+

let it enfold you

either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you.

when I was a young man
I felt that these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing

I was hard as granite, I
leered at the
sun.
I trusted no man and
especially no
woman.

I was living a hell in
small rooms, I broke
things, smashed things,
walked through glass,
cursed.
I challenged everything,
was continually being
evicted, jailed, in and
out of fights, in and out
of my mind.
women were something
to screw and rail
at, I had no male
friends,
I changed jobs and
cities, I hated holidays,
babies, history,
newspapers, museums,
grandmothers,
marriage, movies,
spiders, garbagemen,
English accents, Spain,
France, Italy, walnuts and
the color
orange.
algebra angered me,
opera sickened me,
Charlie Chaplin was a
fake
and flowers were for
pansies.

peace and happiness
were to me
signs of
inferiority,
tenants of the weak
and
addled
mind.

but as I went on with
my alley fights,
my suicidal years,
my passage through
any number of
women - it gradually
began to occur to
me
that I wasn’t different
from the
others, I was the
same.
they were all fulsome
with hatred,
glossed over with petty
grievances,
the men I fought in
alleys had hearts of
stone.
everybody was nudging,
inching, cheating for
some insignificant
advantage,
the lie was the
weapon and the
plot was
empty,
darkness was the
dictator.

cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
I found moments of
peace in cheap
rooms
just staring at the
knobs of some
dresser
or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
the less I needed
the better I
felt.

maybe the other
life had worn me
down.
I no longer found
glamour
in topping somebody
in conversation.
or in mounting the
body of some poor
drunken female
whose life had
slipped away into
sorrow.

I could never accept
life as it was,
I could never gobble
down all its
poisons
but there were parts,
tenuous magic parts
open for the
asking.

I reformulated,
I don’t know when,
date, time, all
that
but the change
occurred.
something in me
relaxed, smoothed
out.
I no longer had to
prove that I was a
man,
I didn’t have to prove
anything.

I began to see things:
coffee cups lined up
behind a counter in a
cafe.
or a dog walking along
a sidewalk.
or the way the mouse
on my dresser top
stopped there,
really stopped there
with its body,
its ears,
its nose,
it was fixed,
a bit of life
caught within itself
and its eyes looked
at me
and they were
beautiful.
then - it was
gone.

I began to feel good,
I began to feel good
in the worst
situations
and there were plenty
of those.
like say, the boss
behind his desk,
he is going to have
to fire me.
I’ve missed too many
days.
he is dressed in a
suit, necktie, glasses,
he says, “I am going
to have to let you go.”

“it’s all right,” I tell
him.

he must do what he
must do, he has a
wife, a house, children,
expenses, most probably
a girlfriend.

I am sorry for him.
he is caught.

I walk out into the blazing
sunshine.
the whole day is mine.
temporarily,
anyhow.

(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
disillusioned.)

I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards
of happiness.
I embraced that stuff
like the hottest number,
like high heels, breasts,
singing, the
works.

(don’t get me wrong,
there is such a thing as
a cockeyed optimism
that overlooks all
basic problems just for
the sake of
itself -
this is a shield and a
sickness.)

the knife got near my
throat again,
I almost turned on the
gas
again
but when the good
moments arrived
again
I didn’t fight them off
like an alley
adversary.
I let them take me,
I luxuriated in them,
I bade them welcome
home.

I even looked into
the mirror
once having thought
myself to be
ugly,
I now liked what
I saw, almost
handsome, yes,
a bit ripped and
ragged,
scars, lumps,
odd turns,
but all in all,
not too bad,
almost handsome,
better at least than
some of those movie
star faces
like the cheeks of
a baby’s
butt.

and finally I discovered
real feeling for
others,
unheralded,
like lately,
like this morning,
as I was leaving
for the track,
I saw my wife in bed,
just the shape of
her head there, covers
pulled high, just the
shape of her
head there
(not forgetting
centuries of the living
and the dead and
the dying,
the pyramids,
Mozart dead
but his music still
there in the
room, weeds growing,
the earth turning,
the toteboard waiting for
me)
I saw the shape of my
wife’s head,
she so still,
I ached for her life
just being there
under the
covers.

I kissed her on the
forehead,
got down the stairway,
got outside,
got into my marvelous
car,
fixed the seatbelt,
backed out the
drive.
feeling warm to
the fingertips,
down to my
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at
me.

Last week going into this week has been absolute dog shit. No money, no work, no food, no booze, no anything, so it seems best to put up a documentary on excess. From groupie packed cars and fast drugs to oceans of alcohol. The Motley Crue Rockumentary.

It sure is easier to go days without eating when your drinking. This stomach acid isnt helping anything much either. The waters run fast when the bottom finally drops out. Take me to hell you fucking cunts. There is no hope in sight. I am doomed.

On a brighter note there is this.  I have no idea where its from.