I am reading Charles Bukowski on the trip.
In some spaces I find.
Essential.
Not reading it in any order
But flipping through and reading what catches my eyes,
I had come across a post the other day
Book of Jobe.
Thoughtful meditation on death and life.
Our friend is at the cross roads and reflective.

“If you are going to try, go all the way”

Read in Bukowski’s gravelly voice.

And I remembered I had purchased this book awhile ago and I thought I should look at it again.

I started near the back,

I have to say I like the older, reflective Bukowski to the younger who seems a bit of an asshole.

I suspect the older was also a bit of an asshole but there is something likeable there.

He is someone like me.

And also completely unlike me.

But there is something in his outlook that I share,

Something that is shining at me between his lines.

Something I have a hard time putting my finger on.

Someway of seeing the truth unflinching

don’t sugar coat it.

I don’t think I would have liked him at all if I were to have met him.

It’s only through the page and time that I can tolerate him.