Tag Archives: Bukowski

This is Me (with This is Sarah) Trying to Be Less Annoying

30 Jun

cover_WRAP_web

Okay so in an effort not to have a million individual posts here and facebook and tumblr and  twitter and thus irritate everyone that I know, I just wanted to set a little bit of space aside to thank all the bloggers who, in just the last few days, have rallied around This Is Sarah and helped me get the word out.

So first off, thanks to Katie for hosting me on her blog where I had a chance to talk about my favorite parts of writing (the beginning) vs my least favorite parts (the end with all the never ending editing!) and she was also kind enough to include a excerpt. Thanks Katie!

Next up was Sami on tumblr with an interview. Sami asked about the writing process and how long it takes to edit a book and I stopped to do the math and realized I re-wrote This Is Sarah about 23 times from when it started as a short story to now. That sort of gave me a headache.

Much thanks to Mary at BookHounds for including this excerpt from Claire’s POV and to Becky at BarmyBookBlog for giving us one from Colin’s POV. Heather also included a excerpt and so did Lee at Rally the Readers.

And finally thanks to Melissa for not only including an excerpt but for also posting my thoughts on what getting up at 5 am to write can really mean (short answer: exhaustion AND productivity). And finally Annie at Just One More Chapter has a bit I wrote from the perspective of Claire that is not in the novel.

It probably doesn’t seem like a big deal but these bloggers not only have tons of requests for reviews and posts but they also have lives so it really means a lot to someone like me that I get a little help in spreading the word.

Thank you bloggers. You rock.

On the otherside of the writing spectrum, I wanted to thank Blue Hour Press, who have always been wonderful for taking these How To Be An American poems and to The CommonLine for taking this poem Take Off.

 

So the tour is going on till July 11th and if anyone else wants to join me, please drop me an email or contact BookFish. Also if you’re interested in reviewing we’re happy to hear your thoughts.

 

Phew, that’s everything. How about we clean the palate with a little Bukowski?

War and Peace by Charles Bukowski

to experience

real agony

is

something

hard

to write about,

impossible

to understand

while it

grips you;

you’re

frightened

out of

your

wits,

can’t sit

still,

move

or even

go

decently

insane.

 

and then

when your

composure

finally

returns

and you are

able to

evaluate

the

experience

it’s almost as

if it

had happened

to

somebody

else

 

because

look at

you

now:

 

calm

detached

 

say

 

cleaning your

fingernails

 

looking through

a

drawer

for

stamps

 

applying

polish

to your

shoes

or

paying the

electric

bill.

 

life is

and is not

a

gentle

bore.

 

Cemetery Walk

14 Jan

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
– Charles Baudelaire

I’ve always like cemeteries, even as a kid. Maybe it’s cause they’re quiet and sad and beautiful and you rarely see other people. They’re good Thinkin’ Places.

The more I travel, the more I go looking for old graves and old homes and over the years I’ve seen quite a few famous ones. So here’s a few of my favorite graves (we’ll do the homes another day), in no particular order.

Since he got the opening quote Baudelaire gets to go first.

Charles Baudelaire – Poet (Paris)

I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy – Charles Baudelaire

I’ve always liked Baudelaire though I confess to having only read Le Fluer des Mal. But I still liked it. There a lot to be said about a man who was obsessed with Edgar Allen Poe and supposedly lined his walkway with skulls. (Not sure if that last part is true.) And in full disclosure whenever his name is mentioned I still think of this. (What? I wrote a kid’s book. Leave me alone.)

Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir – Philosophers (Paris)

Everything has been figured out except how to live – Jean Paul Sartre
One is not born a woman, but becomes one – Simone de Beauvoir

I absolutely loved the Age of Reason. And the Second Sex has been on my to-read list for about 10 years. It’s a long list. When I was Paris I would pass Le Deux Magots where Jean Paul and Simone were known to hold court. I didn’t spend time in the cafe because my hotel was near La Rotunde and as Hemingway said, “”No matter what cafe in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde.” Taxi drivers are smart like that.

Samuel Beckett – novelist/playwright/poet (Paris)

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better. – Samuel Beckett

Full disclosure: I’ve never read anything by Beckett (yet!). But we found this grave for our good friend Oscar cause he’s the world’s biggest Beckett fan. Honestly. The literary gods should give him a medal for it. And he had never been to Beckett’s grave so when he found out we were going to Paris, we promised to find it and to leave a coin [pictured].

Marie Antoniette – Queen of France (St. Denis)

I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains: take it, but do not make me suffer long. – Marie Antoinette

Marie Antoinette has the privilege of being one of the few monarch graves I’ve ever seen – though all the ones I have seen are French. The rumored quote “Let them eat cake,” I heard she never said. So there’s  a rumor that the rumor’s wrong. Next to her grave was a little glass case that held the heart of her son (Louis XVII)  known as the Lost Dauphin.

petit cœur

Jim Morrison – singer/songwriter/poet (Paris)

Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you. – Jim Morrison

Ah the Lizard King. Probably the most visited and vandalized grave in all of Pere Lachaise. I won’t make any cracks about how This is The End (my friend) or about the supposed ghosts. My husband is a huge fan. Me, not so much. But I appreciate what he means to the rock n roll canon. He’s the Lizard King. He can do anything.

Moliere – playwright/actor (Paris)

We die only once, and for such a long time. – Moliere

I’m never read anything by Moliere but I thought that was a hell of a grave. It’s like a bunk bed for the dead!

Oscar Wilde – novelist/playwright/satrist/poet (Paris)

I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying. -Oscar Wilde

Oh I love Oscar Wilde. He was witty and smart and gay and a perfect dandy. I really want his final words about the wallpaper to be true (“The wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go”.) While in Paris I saw the Left Bank Hotel where he died and where we can only assume the wallpaper lived. I am very glad I got there before his cranky relatives who clearly lack the wit and joie de vivre that Oscar had, walled his tomb off from all those kisses. And no, I didn’t kiss it. A) I don’t wear lipstick and B) ew, it’s dirty. That’s how germs are spread.

Charles Bukowski – Poet/Novelist (San Pedro, CA)

Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times out of 9 I’ll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.
Charles Bukowski

Oh Hank. We miss you and your Bluebird. My husband and I took a trip to LA specifically to see the Bukwoski exhibit  at the Huntington which had his famous “typer” and an old glass of wine. It was very cool. We also stomped all over seedy West Hollywood to the Pink Elephant where he used to get his cans of beer to his old homes, including his bungalow on DeLongpre and the hell hole that was his childhood home, before we went out to San Pedro to pay our respects to the old guy himself. It was a good trip. I think Hank would have approved.

John Keats – Poet (Rome)

The poetry of the earth is never dead. – John Keats

Oh Keats, poor raving man Keats. Dramatic up to the last with his “name was writ in water” line. Classic. He was a beauty. Just Look at this death mask. He looks like Han Solo in carbonite.

Percy Bysshe Shelly – Poet (Rome)

Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips. – Percy Bysshe Shelley

Some of my favorite stories about Shelley are the following:

1. It was Mary (soon to be the famous Frankenstein author) not Percy that concocted the plan to run away together in the middle of the night when her father would not give them permission to marry.

2. In Venice he saw his own doppelgänger, which scared him to death when it said  “How long do you mean to be content” Creepy, right?

3. Before they burned his body, Byron gave Mary a box which contained Percy’s heart. And not a token. His ACTUAL HEART!

Galileo Galilei – physicist, mathematician, astronomer, philosopher (Florence)

The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do.
Galileo Galilei

I’m now humming the Indigo Girl’s song. I can’t help it.  In Pisa, I saw his house with a stained glass image of him in the window. It was very cool.

In Florence there is a Galileo museum FULL of all his inventions and these globes and telescopes and things like this:

I’m not sure what it does but it’s AMAZING to look at isn’t it? I took a billion pictures. Honestly. A billion. And they had his FINGER BONE! Let’s pretend it was the middle one. Just a little “ahem” from beyond the grave for killing the smartest guy in the room.

Michelangelo – sculptor (Florence)

A man paints with his brains and not with his hands. – Michelangelo

After I got back from Italy, having seen and been wowed, and I mean truly wowed by the David I decided to read a bio on Michelangelo. I did a little research and found the one most lauded by critics and I read it. You know what I learned? Michelangelo was a very pissy man who lived a very long time (much to his chagrin) and was very unhappy about working with Popes. He also believed his hands were the hands of God. For a holy man, he spent a lot of time nickel and diming people.

Julius Caesar – Emperor/Soldier (Rome)

Yeah. Caesar. I think this gets the prize for oldest grave. I just realized that my comment about Marie Antoniette might have to be revised. He was a monarch too. So this is where they burned his body. It’s tucked away in the ruins of the Forum. Pretty darn cool, huh?

Veni, vidi, vici. All Hail, Caesar!

Jean Michel Basquiat – Painter (Brooklyn)

SAM_2031

I don’t think about art when I’m working. I try to think about life.
Jean-Michel Basquiat

It took a long time to find you, Jean-Michel. The map lied and we searched and searched and finally we were so separated that I couldn’t even see Jay anymore. And then suddenly there you were. I left my very last Paris metro train pass on your tomb. I’ve left a lot of them in a lot of special places. I hope you like that you got the last.  You, of all people, were one of my favorite ghosts to find. Not to mention, it was a beautiful day in Brooklyn.

Leonard Bernstein – Conductor/Author/Pianist (Brooklyn)

To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time. Leonard Bernstein

To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time.
Leonard Bernstein

Leonard Bernstein is an honorary member of the Vienna Philharmonic and as I will be soon be on my way there that makes it even better. For those of you who don’t know, aside from a myriad of other things, he wrote the music to West Side Story. Luck intervened twice in Bernstein’s life – once when was ten and his aunt, going through a divorce, stashed her piano in his parent’s apartment and then later during the war, when he was appointed assistant conductor of the NY Philharmonic  mostly because everyone else had been drafted. Everything else was pure hard work and talent.

Jack Kerouac – novelist/poet  (Lowell, MA)

One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple. – Jack Kerouac

Ah Ti Jean. I find that it is often best to let Jack do all the talking:

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.”

William Shakespeare – Playwright/poet (Stratford Upon Avon)

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. – William Shakespeare

Yes, that’s scaffolding and yes, that’s as close as I got and if you’ve read even one other page on this blog then you know how OBSESSED I am with Shakespeare and that this was a crushing “Wally World is closed” sort of moment for me. I don’t want to go through it again. There’s a whole explanation here.

But I did get to sit on the bench that Will and Anne sat on before they were married. Squee!

And now, the next trip this spring should snag me Beethoven and the area they generally think is Mozart’s grave. And one of these days I’ve got to get back to England to find Marlowe’s grave.

Okay that’s a lot of words about dead people and their stones.

Goodnight Irene!

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