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The Drunken Odyssey

~ A Podcast About the Writing Life

The Drunken Odyssey

Tag Archives: Charles Bukowski

Aesthetic Drift #12: A Letter from Henry Hughes

04 Thursday Aug 2016

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Aesthetic Drift

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Abel Debritto, Back Seat with Fish, Charles Bukowski, Henry Hughes, On Writing, Sycamore Review

Aesthetic Drift #12

A Letter from Henry Hughes

July 7, 2016

Dear John,

It’s great to hear from you. I remember the excellent work you did editing the Sycamore Review when I was last at Purdue at the turn of our new century. And I listen to The Drunken Odyssey when I can—great stuff, man. You’re not just keeping literature and literary discussions afloat, you’ve got them cruising at fifty knots.

I didn’t know about this Bukowski collection, On Writing. Gotta get a copy.

On Writing

Yes, Charles Bukowski and I exchanged a few letters while I served as the first editor of Sycamore Review from 1988 – 1991. I have six letters and a postcard, some are lost. The original September 13, 1990 Bukowski letter that Abel Debritto reprinted in On Writing is among those I possess. I don’t know how he got it, but I’ve made some copies for folks over the years. I’m pleased to see it in print.

I’m not sure if you know how Sycamore Review got started. In 1986, Purdue inaugurated its Creative Writing program. I arrived in the fall of ’87 and there was sadness in the air. A few months earlier, a gifted graduate student and poet, Ann Griffith Lindsey, had been killed in an automobile accident. Ann was working hard to start a serious literary magazine. Her death was devastating, but her parents made a generous bequest in her honor, and the English department and administration backed it up with more money and resources. The department hired me and we put together a staff of other graduate students, including Elizabeth Stuckey-French. But no one ever heard of Sycamore Review, and Purdue had the reputation of a tech school, so we had to advertise like crazy as well as solicit contributions from some “big names.” I wrote a few authors—William Stafford, Simon Ortiz, Mary Oliver, Diane Wakowski—and they all contributed. It was great. Then I sent a letter to Charles Bukowski, landing some terrific poems and initiating a lively correspondence.

I always found Bukowski’s work refreshing and honest, though not always deep and layered. He cranked out a lot of stuff, some crap, some gold. Collections like Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (1984) and Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame (1988) had a big influence on me. Like Buk, I grew up working class, liked to drink and party, liked chasing girls. Bukowski’s work showed me that it was okay to write directly about these experiences. You didn’t have to be polite about it—though Bukowski had more courage to talk straight than I ever did. Nonetheless, many of the poems I wrote in my early twenties embraced and, I think, benefitted from this raw freedom. My main professor, Marianne Boruch, did not always approve, however. Boruch was a good teacher, but she found many of my poems over-sexed and in bad taste. There’s one poem, “Holiday,” that begins with an epigraph from Bukowski: “each evening bent like the point of a thumb tack / that will no longer stick / in.” The poem talks about drinking and getting laid. There’s line: “Jennifer telling me to come. And I tried, / but the whole ceiling collapsed on me.” Boruch hated it, but it’s in my first book. Men Holding Eggs.

I also use a couple Bukowski poems in the literature and writing classes I teach at Western Oregon University. There’s striking specificity and lovely music in a poem like “The Shoelace,” warning that most of us can handle the big calamities like “death . . . fire and flood,” but it’s the accumulation of small unlucky stuff and bad shit, like “no pot, except maybe one to piss in and / the other around your / gut” that can send us to the madhouse when that shoelace “snaps / with no time left.” And in the more narrative poems, such as “The Last Days of the Suicide Kid,” students and I hear and trust the candor and simplicity of the speaker in a nursing home. It’s all about the power of voice. You believe Bukowski when he’s talking—even when he’s making shit up. There’s nothing wrong with inventing characters and voices—novelists do it all the time—but to write in first person as yourself or Henry Chinaski and sound authentic nearly all the time, damn, that’s effective.

When I wrote Bukowski the first letter back in 1989, I quoted a phrase Marianne Boruch brandished to criticize some poems she called “Good doggie poems,” that is, well behaved, nice image, nice sentiment verses. Buk obviously loved the expression and teased us about the earthy, predictable name of our heartland journal, Sycamore Review, warning us we were “going to get a lot of ‘Good Doggie’ poems.” That letter—illustrated with a drawing of a man in bed beside a bottle of booze and two little dogs—was published along with his poem “Getting Old” in our Winter 1990 issue. “Getting Old” is long-winded dialogue and not his best work, but we liked it well enough, and our readers loved it. Bukowski had a cult following.

Bukowski Hughes letter 3

There was, of course, no email or internet. Physical letters fluttered back and forth. Bukowski had bold, handsome handwriting. He addressed envelopes and signed typed letters with a fine-tipped black marker. He used stamps depicting birds and Native Americans. Here’s an interesting note. Despite Bukowski’s drunken, stoned, uncensored crudity and reputation for wildness, he was extremely professional in literary business matters. You pointed this out, John—Bukowski worried that he couldn’t sign a contract granting our journal first rights to his poem because the piece might appear in a collection a couple months prior to our release date. Of course, I waived the stipulation. Who cares about whether one poem comes out a few weeks early in an author’s book? Obviously Bukowski did.

Around this time I wrote him another letter and asked about fishing, my passion.

This exchange is described in my new memoir, Back Seat with Fish. Bukowski pointed me to his poem “The Fisherman,” a sad song of both endurance and resignation set in Sand Pedro, California where he lived. He said he’s send me a new poem that included some kind of fish.

Hughes 3

I wrote him in the fall of 1989 asking if he’d do a reading at Purdue, but he said he no longer gave readings: “Only did so as a means of absolute survival, never liked giving them. I think a writer’s job is to write.” He made references to the passing of time and his age, “Christ, I never thought I’d live this long” and expressed a sense of fading action. “I rather miss the excitement I felt when I first read POUND, ELIOT, e.e. CUMMINGS, AUDEN, SPENDER, JEFFERS, and that gang. Everything is too close now, there seems a lacking. I call it ‘the absence of the hero.’”

In January, 1990, I got a postcard from Buk—he made his own postcards—with a photo of him pressing a barbell over his head in front of an open refrigerator full of beer. On the card he wrote “Lively, good issue. Keep it up!” He clearly liked the Sycamore and soon after submitted 13 new poems.

What a windfall! I thanked Buk in a letter and expressed my disappointment with a lot of the poetry I was reading in the big journals. He wrote back right away with the September 13, 1990 letter that DeBritto used. From that big batch of poems we published “Glory Days” and “Luck Was Not a Lady for Me” in Vol 3. No. 1 (1991). Although Buk was suffering from Leukemia and would be dead in three years, he was still writing with guts and fire. “Glory Days” is both grounded and surreal. It starts, “the dead rivers run backwards into nowhere, / the fish cry through neon memories, / and I remember you drunk in bed.”  As he promised, there was a fish image for me.  These poems are tough, funny and desperately alive. I loved them.

Sometime in the spring of 1991, there was some push back on Bukowski’s vulgar language and perceived sexism. I don’t have copies of the letters I sent, but I remember explaining to Buk that some people were getting bent out of shape about the line from “The Glory Days” when the landlady is yelling at Hank, “Mr. Chinaski, I must warn you,” and Hank yells back, in caps, “AH GO WARN YOUR MOTHER’S CUNT.” I thought it was very authentic dialogue. Of course, the folks in the Writing Program championed free speech, but Indiana is a conservative state. Our journal raised money with the help of Purdue’s foundation, and undoubtedly many donors—perhaps wealthy engineers or retired astronauts—were not too keen on “cunt” references. Bukowski responded in an emphatic letter to me on March 28, 1991: “They are full of falsity, decay, shit, boredom and fear. Universities are not places of learning to them, they are places of comfort to them, they are the Eternal Ostriches with their heads in the sand . . . Be proud you fought against these, no matter the price.” God, I cherish those words.

The last poem we published was “One More Day” (Vol. 3.2 1991). It’s a sad beautiful end-of-life, washing my car poem: “the slippery summer sun of my youth is / gone.” But the speaker tips the “gentleman,” gets back into his glistening automobile, puts his hands on the wheel, and drives off:

it’s a fair day among the

living.

the earth has been here for

such a very long

time.

 

I get the green and go

on.

Rereading these poems and letters has helped me remember the vitality, humor, hardship and sadness that moved through Bukowski’s work. He touched and influenced a lot of young writers. He certainly helped me become a better poet.

Thanks, John, for asking about those old days at Sycamore Review and the rich exchanges with writers like Charles Bukowski. Again, I admire what you’re doing on The Drunken Odyssey and wish you all the very best. Let me quote the very last lines of that last Bukowski letter—lines that apply very much to you and your work: “You are alive. That’s rare, that’s rare. Rejoice.”

Yours in Oregon,

Henry

_______

Henry Hughes

Henry Hughes (Episode 217) grew up on Long Island, New York. After completing an MA in Creative Writing at Purdue University in 1990, he spent five years working in Japan and China. He completed a Ph.D. in American literature at Purdue in 2002 and now teaches at Western Oregon University. Hughes is the author of four collections of poetry, including Men Holding Eggs (2004 Oregon Book Award), Moist Meridian (2011 Finalist for the Oregon Book Award), and Bunch of Animals, new from Cloudbank Books. His poems and essays have appeared in Antioch Review, Carolina Quarterly, Shenandoah, Seattle Review, Poetry Northwest, Gray’s Sporting Journal and Harvard Review where his book reviews regularly appear.  His fishing memoir, Back Seat with Fish: A Man Adventures in Angling and Romance, was published this spring by Skyhorse. He is the editor of the Everyman’s Library anthologies, The Art of Angling: Poems about Fishing and Fishing Stories. Hughes is a professor of literature and writing at Western Oregon University.

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Episode 217: A Craft Discussion About Charles Bukowski’s On Writing, with Vanessa Blakeslee!

30 Saturday Jul 2016

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Craft of Fiction Writing, Episode

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Charles Bukowski, Henry Hughes, Post Office, Purdue University, Sycamore Review, Vanessa Blakeslee, Women

Episode 217 of The Drunken Odyssey, your favorite podcast about creative writing and literature is available on iTunes, or right click here to download.

In this week’s episode, I talk with Vanessa Blakeslee about On Writing, a book of selections from Charles Bukowski’s letters,

Vanessa and John 2

plus poet Henry Hughes writes me a letter about his own correspondence with Bukowski back from 1989 and 1991.

Henry Hughes
TEXTS DISCUSSED

On Writing

post-office-charles-bukowski

Women

Bukowski Hughes letter 1 Bukowski Hughes letter 2 Bukowski Hughes letter 3Bukowski Hughes letter 4Bukowski Hughes letters 5Hughes 1Hughes 2Hughes 3NOTES

  • On August 2nd, I’ll be reading in Tod Caviness’s Loose Lips reading series at L’il Indies.
  • On August 9th, I’ll be reading at THERE WILL BE FAN FICTION at The Gallery at Avalon Island.
  • Check out Henry Hughes’s website here.

Episode 217of The Drunken Odyssey, your favorite podcast about creative writing and literature is available on iTunes, or right click here to download.

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In Boozo Veritas #23: Widening Gyres

06 Monday Jan 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in In Boozo Veritas

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Tags

Charles Bukowski, In Boozo Veritas, New Years Eve, Teege Braune, The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats

In Boozo Veritas #23 by Teege Braune

Widening Gyres

“If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.”  - Charles Bukowski

“If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.”
– Charles Bukowski

Awaken to a New Dawn

Who among us has never woken on January first to the rising sun of a new year only to bury their throbbing head under the pillow? Here we are at the start of a fresh beginning, new possibilities, another shot at becoming the people we’ve always dreamed, and we kick the whole thing off with a hangover. Let’s face it: the torment is our just deserts, for New Year’s Eve is one night to simultaneously celebrate the glories of the past year while flushing its sorrows into the oblivion of a black-out drunk. Who among us hasn’t taken a cue from the those agonizing moments of New Years morn and vowed never to drink again only to find ourselves slipping back into old habits before the blossoms of springtime have brought forth their opiatic charms? Why deny ourselves the indulgence of our favorite vice only to be disappointed when it creeps its way back into our lives? Avoid the vicious cycle of disappointment and regret as New Year’s resolutions become New Year’s dissolutions and follow my advice: don’t drink less, just drink better. As the sage of boozy wisdom Charles Bukowski has taught us, we each have our own reasons for hitting the sauce. 2014 could be the year we return from the front, victors with our spoils, or we may watch our kingdoms crumble into the ocean like the tide washing away the sandcastles of childhood’s fancy.

Images out of Spiritus Mundi

Remember the Maya, the indigenous people who once populated much of Mexico and Central America, an advanced civilization with a written language, rich artistic tradition, and complex understanding of mathematical principles who for some reason decided to end their calendar on December 21, 2012?

Maya

The only possible explanation for this bizarre enigma was that the Maya were somehow privy to the fact that a spontaneous magnetic pole reversal would flip the world on its axis, creating cataclysmic disasters of Biblical proportions. Never mind that every living scholar of Mayan culture practically shouted to deaf ears that this interpretation of the mysterious calendar was a gross and insensitive misunderstanding of the Mayan concept of time. Scholarship proved less exciting than sensationalism, so no one listened to the very people best capable of easing our anxiety. December 21, 2012 came and went. We survived unscathed, no less shocked than we were when Y2K failed to destroy civilization.

Little more than a week later, we rang in a new year as uneasy as we had ever been. 2013 reared its ugly head flaunting the most notorious numerical omen of all, two digits so loathsome most buildings don’t even give them a floor. What good could come out of a year called 2013? Thank goodness for 2014, a year without mathematical anomalies threatening our very existence, a year that isn’t even divisible by five. Kick back, relax, and grab a beer as you enjoy twelve months without the prophesied threat of global destruction. For now, at least, we are safe.

“Safe?” one scoffs with mirthless laughter. Climate change, World War III, plague, or meteors could destroy the planet at any second. While unprecedented storms continue to ravage coastal cities, relations between the United Sates and Russia have grown more sour than they’ve been since the Cold War. Meanwhile, the hippies next door who have refused to vaccinate their children have turned green with purple spots and a star named Wormwood turns its sinister eye on our blue planet. Surely some revelation is at hand; sure the Second Coming is at hand! With all the threats to our lives and safety, can you afford not to to be stinking, black-out drunk for the next 365 days or more lest we come face to face with the pitiless, blank gaze of some rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouching towards Bethlehem to be born.

Welcome to Future World!

Technology is a glorious thing. Before we can even pay off our credit card bills, the next shiny new toy is on the market promising to imbue our lives with an ease and wonder once only dreamt of in science fiction. All the knowledge in the world at our fingertips; books, music, art, and movies at the push of a button; loved ones separated from us by thousands of miles can appear in our living room through FaceTime and social networking. A glorious new dawn awakens with the electric sound of buzzing machines working to do our bidding. Meanwhile Christof Koch, one of the world’s leading neuroscientists, has taken our understanding of consciousness to entirely new levels by claiming that any information-processing system with enough integrated connections will develop self awareness.

Christof Koch

We think, therefore we are simply because our brains are sufficiently complex and have enough synapses to do so. The internet has “10^19 transistors, compared to the roughly 1000 trillion (or quadrillion) synapses in the human brain. That’s about 10,000 times more transistors than synapses,” Koch stated in a recent interview for Wired.com. The uncomfortable outcome of these enormous numbers is that the internet, that poor bastard, could very possibly have developed self awareness. One can only speculate what a conscious internet might be thinking, but I imagine it would go something like, “Will one of these assholes just shut the hell up and pour me a drink?!”

The technological possibilities of 2014 are as vast as the human imagination itself. The first flying cars have already made successful test flights. Will this be the year we are finally introduced to Google Goggles giving us access to endless amounts of information about our surroundings with little more than a twitch of the eye?

glass

Baudrillardian concepts of simulacra and simulation and the end of history will become increasingly literal as the technological singularity principle and transhumanism championed by Ray Kurzweil, Google’s director of engineering, will one day make the body obsolete. Imagine ordering a drink one thousand years from now: a “bartender” downloads a program recreating aspects of taste and inebriation into your pleasure center. All of this is managed and operated by the giant mainframe computer in which you live your entire life, your consciousness, like the rest of civilization, having been analyzed, uploaded, and stored inside its near infinite network of databases. The clunky, useless, disease-ridden matter people used to refer to as flesh and tissue is conveniently recycled for energy at no additional cost to you. Could this be the next stage of human evolution as set into motion eons ago by our alien genetic engineers? As the Dude said, “I still jerk off manually.” What will there be to love and fear of bourbon if it doesn’t burn a little going down or coming back up for that matter?

___________

Teege Braun 4

Teege Braune (episode 72, episode 75, episode 77) is a writer of literary fiction, horror, essays, and poetry. Recently he has discovered the joys of drinking responsibly. He may or may not be a werewolf.

Episode 72: We Drink!

08 Friday Nov 2013

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Drinking, Episode

≈ 68 Comments

Tags

Baudelaire, Charles Bukowski, Diane Turgeon Richardson, Ernest Hemingway, Farenheit 451, James Joyce, Matt Peters, Ray Bradbury, Teege Braune, William Faulkner, William S. Burroughs

Episode 72 of The Drunken Odyssey, your favorite podcast about creative writing and literature is available on iTunes, or right click here to download.

On this week’s show, My friends Teege Braune of In Boozo Veritas fame, Matt Peters of Windward Press, and MFA candidate Dianne Turgeon Richardson join me to discuss matters literary and drinkerly.

Teege Braun and Matt Peters

Diane Turgeon Richardson

Plus Dave Patterson writes about how Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451 transformed him.

Dave Patterson

TEXTS DISCUSSED

60th anniversary edition

Bukowski On drinking

Baudelaire Beer

Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation

NOTES

To read Teege Braun’s liner notes for this episode, see #15 of his blog, In Boozo Veritas.

Carlton Melton‘s song “Use Your Words” from their album Country Ways accompanied Dave Patterson’s “A Pleasure to Burn.”

photo

Laurie Anderson’s Remembrance of Lou Reed appears in Rolling Stone.

Teege Braune’s eulogy for Lou Reed appeared in In Boozo Veritas #13.

This weekend Playfest is happening at Orlando Shakespeare Theatre.

playfest

The Heaven of Animals, the forthcoming collection from friend-of-the-show David James Poissant, is available for pre-order. Please support the launch of his book, which is wonderful reading.

The Heaven of Animals

 Episode 72 of The Drunken Odyssey, your favorite podcast about creative writing and literature is available on iTunes, or right click here to download.

In Boozo Veritas #2: Don’t Bet on the Muse

12 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Blog Post, Drinking, In Boozo Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Charles Bukowski, In Boozo Veritas

In Boozo Veritas #2 by Teege Braune

Don’t Bet on the Muse

This is a literary anecdote that I hope is true despite everything else I’m going say in this post: I once heard that Charles Bukowski’s nightly routine, after he finished another grueling day at the post-office and had a quick bite at his favorite L.A. greasy spoon, was to sit down at his typewriter with a bottle of whiskey and hack out page after page while drinking prodigiously until he slipped into a booze-addled blackout and awoke the next morning slumped in his chair, or prostrate on the floor having fallen out of his chair, or rarely, in his own bed having crawled into it at some unremembered point during the night. Upon reinvestigating his writing desk in the head-pounding hours of the morning, Bukowski would discover an empty bottle of whiskey and a handful of stories that he didn’t remember writing. These tales typed out in a state of absolute mental annihilation must have seemed less like Bukowski’s adventures with booze as they did booze’s adventures with Bukowski, stories actually composed by the morbid imagination of alcohol itself.

Why would this tragedy of another man’s addiction and desperation hold so much appeal for me? As a young aspiring memoirist, before I even became a drinker, this fairy tale embodied my philosophy for good writing, that the two, and only two things a writer needed were a willingness to be completely honest and dedication to live as interestingly as possible. It is funny to me that my vision of an interesting life did not include bettering myself or helping other people. No, living interestingly was synonymous with selfish and self-destructive behavior: drinking, using drugs, and being promiscuous, activities I had only read about in books. The hilarious thing is that the essays and short stories I wrote at that time are tediously dull and affected, dwelling obsessively on my own boredom and sexual frustration, while simultaneously attempting to appear both better read and more debased than I actually was. Even if occasionally the rays of self-awareness parted the cloudy skies of my adolescent ego, how could I be expected to be a good writer when I wasn’t actually having sex, dropping LSD, or getting drunk?

I had fantasies of checking into hotels with suitcases full of nothing but liquor and emerging days later with perfect manuscripts, novels thinly veiled as fiction completed in a single furiously written draft. As ludicrous as this sounds to me now, I understand the motivation  behind this daydream more than ever. After all, what could be easier? If only it were as simple as this: the drunker I am, the sharper my imagination will be. The pages of popular culture magazines are filled with the personal essays of young writers who seem to cling desperately to this notion. Who can blame them? Many writers besides Bukowski have become famous perpetuating this myth.

After all, Bukowski’s life was a sort of literary fairy tale. After gaining an underground celebrity as a poet, he was encouraged to quit his awful job and write full time by his publisher Joe Martin who personally covered all of his living expenses until his writing paid for them itself. Despite being nobody’s Prince Charming, he began to meet a barrage of female fans eager to sleep with the bard of decadence, eventually marrying Linda Lee Beighle, an attractive admirer half his age who tolerated his philandering because she was doing plenty of her own. To this day Bukowski is adored not only by immature and emulating young writers, he is also championed by other defenders of the dispossessed like Tom Waits. Never mind, Bukowski was already an old man when this unexpected success finally befell him or that his relationship with Beighle was tortured, toxic, and mutually abusive. Bukowski is remembered as an alcoholic as much as he’s remembered as a writer. That to me is a rather heavy distinction and not a price I, for one, wish to pay for fame and literary success.

So why do I want this anecdote about Bukowski’s creative process and ritual to be true? Why do I still love Santa Claus and Wonderland? There’s a part of me that never wants to grow up. Though I know his mythos, like his work, is a hazy blend of fiction and autobiography, there is a dark magic wavering in those indistinct borders. When I’m feeling crushed between the cogs of endless revision and rejection, I often wish some soppy muse was waiting behind one more glass of bourbon to whisper strokes of genius into my vacant mind just as she came to Bukowski in his own blackest hours.

___________

Teege Braun 5

Teege Braune is a writer of literary fiction, horror, essays, and poetry. Recently he has discovered the joys of drinking responsibly. He may or may not be a werewolf.

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