Slumming it with Bukowski

some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.

Every morning, I do the same thing to set my day. I start with a half hour of gently yoga (Yoga With Adrienne is my jam). Then I meditate with Headspace. And then I follow it up with a little bit of inspirational reading and a short journaling session before I get on with the business part of my day. 

My readings in the morning can be a bit sporadic. Pivot Year by Brianna Wiest has been a daily balm to my soul, each page full of insight and affirmations that I am on the right track and I am my own best influence. Another daily reader, For Today, has been a refreshing help in my food recovery journey, offering encouragement as I heal my relationship with food. Dog Songs, a book of poetry by Mary Oliver is like a meditation in itself, speaking of her love for her dogs that hit me straight in the soul. 

And then there’s Bukowski. 

I have been in quite a snit the past two weeks, suffering from intense emotional outbursts that end up with either tears or fiery rage. It’s hormones, and I’m figuring it out. But in the meantime, I’ve been to some of the darkest places these past few weeks, and fuck it all, I’ve been ready to bring everyone down with me. 

Enter Bukowski, a man who is crass and vulgar and ugly, and uses all these things in his words. And as I read his poems, I feel like I’ve found a friend. I want the anger, the complete crudeness, the naked looks at vulgarity. I want the dark and sinister ways he describes his relationship with women, or how he feels while drowning in alcohol, or how he loathes himself and everyone around him. 

Some People Never Go Crazy
Charles Bukowski

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.

then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.

some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.

Brianna Wiest offers me encouragement to be the best self I can be. Mary Oliver invites me to see Spirit in every single molecule of this world. But Bukowski? He lets me know that we all feel ugly and crude and vulgar from time to time, and that it’s okay and all a part of the human condition. 

Which writers have spoken to you on your human journey? 

P.S. I shared a bit of what’s going on with me on Instagram, the highs and lows. Check it out:

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