A Day for Ol' Buk

On Sunday I drove up the coast to San Marino, California, where the Huntington Library held an exhibition of Charles Bukowski's works and life. I thought about how nice it would have been to lay around in the sunshine on the beach and not fight traffic for 6-7 hours, but I reasoned I could do that most any day, and this was an important piece of the history of literature. And I wanted to see how it was presented.

The Huntington 'Library' is actually this expansive campus with long, perfectly-groomed rich green lawns, large trees, and classic statues. It's much more than a library in that it includes several buildings full of art, botanical gardens, and a collection of rare books and manuscripts. If I'd done a little more research, I'd have gone up for a day or two!

I approach these kinds of things with a sort of reverence and respect for the author. I was first going to take the train, then I was looking for someone to take the ride up there with me, but it didn't work out. That was OK, though, since it gave me time to think, and to think about writing. I wasn't the slightest bit bored or lonely; it was satisfying.

This was similar to visiting Hemingway's house on that bluff overlooking Havana, only that was a was a deeper look into Hem's life, home and elevated writing room. To peek at his stocked bar and books and mounted big game was like taking a step back in time. And then to climb the stairs to the study where he wrote, to see the same view that he saw when he was writing great books -- that was almost chilling.

When I pulled into the series of full parking lots, their size hidden by the wooded grounds, I almost expected to see a few spontaneous parties, maybe a tailgate party and kegs of beer, with various smokes wafting about; but no, weaving and circling through the lots I couldn't find a spot and only saw a few young couples heading toward the main building. I backed into a spot that wasn't really a space, and figured it'd be OK.

I was just a little late, and harried, and still I was looking for that bubbling, raucous crowd, but no, there were just families and ordinary citizens.

I bought my ticket at the window asked for directions and quickly overshot the building, but it gave me a view of the beautiful grounds. Doubling back and nearing the exhibit entrance, anticipation sizzled inside me.

The Bukoski exhibit grabbed you when you walked in: a huge poster with his picture and name, and there, encased in glass, was his beaten-up typewriter (or "typer" as he called it), his radio and a stained glass of wine. The the typer was lightly splattered with different paints, as Bukowski did a lot of sketches and some painting too.

I scanned the crowded room. No loud drunks, no smelly bohemian-types, just college students and bespectacled middle-aged couples. One college kid with a hat, maybe an aspiring writer.

Viewing the personal sketches, poem and novel drafts he'd hand-edited, first edition books, his racing forms, postcards, letters, and those from a few dedicated supporters and editors, along with some adoring fans, one got a real personal look into his life. I read every single description of every single item exhibited in the two rooms, which were pretty full of visitors, so full that you had to sometimes wait and shuffle and squeeze by to get to the next exhibited item. Every so often I'd glance around the room, and still, everyone looked perfectly normal. No crazies, no drunks. Just silent study and reverence. Strange.

I've read all his novels, and some of his poetry, but I learned a little more about Charles Bukowski and also about writing by seeing the exhibit. He'd written more short stories than I knew about, and he was busily sending them out to magazine editors. When he found he couldn't get into staid publications like the New Yorker or Atlantic, he hit the smaller ones, and built a following. He also published in mainstream porn magazines like Penthouse and Oui. The point is that he was working, pushing, trying the whole time. Scraping and scratching his way into history, like it or not.

Bukowski never wrote a New York Times bestseller, but he left his mark. He was mostly ignored by academia, but now he has to be dealt with. Sure, he's the hard drinking, brawling, dirty old man, but he did that better than anyone else. In fact, I recently saw him at the top of a prominent 'dirty writers in history' list, ahead of the likes of James Joyce and Philip Roth.

They had some sort of tour and reception and they were going to read some of his work but I can hardly stand it when those pathetic literary gadflies get up and start trying to imitate. I was there to see Buk.

After an hour I went to the bookstore and they had the largest display of Bukowski books, postcards, and memorabilia I've seen. I bought a few things, including a mousepad with a picture of his typer and some postcards that read, "what matters most is how you walk through the fire."

I also bought a small journal book with one of his drawings on the cover.

Heading back I got slightly lost at first, then got on the freeway and soon I was ensnared in 10 mile per hour L.A. traffic. It didn't much matter though, since I was pretty satisfied with those 90 minutes I spent to peer into the life of a modern writer whose popularity is growing, now almost 20 years after his death. That's the sign of a true artist.

When I got back home in Mexico, I sat in my recliner, sipped a dry martini, and wrote six poems in my new Buk journal. And I hardly ever write poetry!