Ecstasy

Photo: At the San Francisco Museum of Art, an abstract gets close scrutiny

Be they artists or lovers of art, mystics or mathematicians, those who achieve ecstasy are those who have freed themselves from the arrogance of humanity. He who would feel the significance of art must make himself humble before it. Those who find the chief importance of art or of philosophy in its relation to conduct or its practical utility – those who cannot value things as ends in themselves or, at any rate, as direct means to emotion – will never get from anything the best that it can give. Whatever the world of aesthetic contemplation may be, it is not the world of human business and passion; in it the chatter and tumult of material existence is unheard, or heard only as the echo of some more ultimate harmony.

Clive Bell
Art (1914)

a cat is a cat is a cat is a cat

she’s whistling and clapping
for the cats
at 2 a.m.
as I sit here
with my
Beethoven.

“they’re just prowling,” I
tell her…

Beethoven rattles his bones
majestically

and those damn cats
don’t care
about
any of it

and
if they did
I wouldn’t like them
as
well:

things begin to lose their
natural value
when they approach
human
endeavor.

nothing against
Beethoven:
he did fine
for what he
was

but I wouldn’t want
him
on my rug
with one leg
over his head
while
he was
licking
his balls.

Charles Bukowski
You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)

miracle

Photogram by Floris M. Neusüss: Körperbild (KOR B27) (1963)

I have just listened to this
symphony which Mozart dashed off
in one day
and it had enough wild and crazy
joy to last
forever,
whatever forever
is
Mozart came as close as
possible to
that.

Charles Bukowski
You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)

Photogram by Floris M. NeusüssKörperbild (KOR B27) (1963)

Leonard Cohen on Art

It isn’t that in my life I had some inner vision that I’ve been trying to present. I just had the appetite to work. I think the appetite for activity was much more urgent than the realization of any search or vision. I felt that this was my work, and that it was the only work I could do.

This sounds like the most hackneyed nineteenth-century platitude, but in the midst of my own tiny personal troubles, I was able to turn to art, or whatever you want to call it. I was able to turn to art, and in the making of art find solace and strength. I mean, this sounds terrible, but I turned to the thing I knew how to do and I made some songs out of it. And in the making of those songs, much of the pain in my life was dissolved, from time to time. And that is one of the things that I see that art does, is that it heals.

Leonard Cohen
Interviewed by Mikal Gilmore, 2001
Stories Done: Writings on the 1960s and Its Discontents (2008)

Music: Minute Prologue (1972)
Live Songs 

GREAT POETS DIE IN STEAMING POTS OF SHIT

Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, and General Tales of Ordinary Madness

let me tell you about him. with sick hangover I crawled out from under the sheets the other day to try to get to the store, buy some food, place food inside of me and make the job I hate. all right. I was in this grocery store, and this little shit of a man (he must have been as old as I) but perhaps more comfortable and stupid and idiotic, a chipmunk full of beatlenuts and BOW WOW and no regard for anything except the way he felt or thought or expressed…he was a hyena-chipmunk, a piece of sloth. a slug. he kept staring at me, then he said:

HEY!!!

he walked on up and stood there staring. HEY! he said HEY! he had very round eyes and he stood thee staring up at me from out of those very round eyes. the eyes had bottoms like the dirty bottoms of swimmingpools – no reflection. I didn’t have but a few minutes, had to rush. I had missed the job the day before and had already been counciled – god knows how many times – for excessive absenteeism. I really wanted to walk away from him but I was too sick to gather myself. he looked like the manager of an apartment house I had once lived in a few years back. one of those who was always standing in the hall at 3 a.m. when you entered with a strange woman.

he kept staring so I said, I CAN’T REMEMBER YOU. I’M SORRY, I JUST CAN’T REMEMBER YOU. I’M JUST NOT VERY GOOD AT THAT SORT OF THING. meanwhile thinking, why don’t you go away? why do you have to be here? I don’t like you.

I WAS AT YOUR PLACE, he said. OVER THERE, he pointed. he turned around and pointed south and east, where I had never lived. worked, but never lived. good, I thought, he’s a nut. I don’t know him. never knew him. I’m free. I can shove him off.

SORRY, I said, BUT YOU’RE MISTAKEN – I DON’T KNOW YOU. NEVER LIVED OVER THERE. SORRY, MAN.

I started to push my basket off.

WELL, MAYBE NOT THERE. BUT I KNOW YOU. IT WAS A PLACE IN THE BACK, YOU LIVED IN A PLACE IN THE BACK, ON THE SECOND FLOOR. IT WAS ABOUT A YEAR AGO.

SORRY, I told him, BUT I DRINK TOO MUCH. I FORGET PEOPLE. I DID LIVE IN A PLACE IN BACK, SECOND FLOOR, BUT THAT WAS 5 YEARS AGO.

LISTEN, I’M AFRAID YOU’RE MIXED UP. I’M IN A HURRY, REALLY. I HAVE TO GO, I’M REALLY DOWN TO THE MINUTE NOW.

I rolled on off toward the meat department.

he ran along beside me.

YOU’RE BUKOWSKI, AREN’T YOU?

YES, I AM.

I WAS THERE. YOU JUST DON’T REMEMBER. YOU WERE DRINKING.

WHO THE HELL BROUGHT YOU OVER?

NOBODY. I CAME ON MY OWN. I WROTE A POEM ABOUT YOU. YOU DON’T REMEMBER. BUT YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT.

UMM, I said.

I ONCE WROTE A POEM TO THAT GUY WHO WROTE ‘THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN ARM.’ WHAT’S HIS NAME?

ALGREN. NELSON ALGREN, I said.

YEAH, he said. I WROTE A POEM ABOUT HIM. SENT IT TO THIS MAGAZINE. THE EDITOR SUGGESTED THAT I SEND THE POEM TO HIM. ALGREN WROTE BACK, HE WROTE ME BACK A NOTE ON A RACING FORM. ‘THIS IS MY LIFE,’ HE WROTE ME.

FINE, I said, SO WHAT’S YOUR NAME?

IT DOESN’T MATTER. MY NAME IS ‘LEGION.’

VERY FUNNY, I smiled. we trotted along, then stopped. I reached over and got a package of hamburger. then I decided to give him the brushoff. I took the hamburger and stuck it in his hand and shook his hand with it, saying, WELL, OK, GOOD TO SEE YOU, BUT MAN, REALLY I’VE GOT TO GO.

then I shifted into high and pushed my basket out of there. toward the bread department. he wouldn’t shake.

ARE YOU STILL AT THE POST OFFICE? he asked, trotting along.

I’M AFRAID SO.

YOU OUGHT TO GET OUT OF THERE. IT’S A HORRIBLE PLACE. IT’S THE WORST PLACE YOU CAN BE.

I THINK IT IS. BUT YOU SEE, I CAN’T DO ANYTHING, I DON’T HAVE ANY SPECIAL TRAINING.

YOU’RE A GREAT POET, MAN.

GREAT POETS DIE IN STEAMING POTS OF SHIT.

BUT YOU’VE GOT ALL THAT RECOGNITION FROM THE LEFT-WING PEOPLE.

left-wing people? this guy was crazy. we trotted along.

I HAVE RECOGNITION. FROM MY BUDDIES AT THE POST OFFICE. I’M RECOGNIZED AS A LUSH AND A HORSEPLAYER.

CAN’T YOU GET A GRANT OR SOMETHING?

I TRIED LAST YEAR. THE HUMANITIES. ALL I GOT BACK WAS A FORM-LETTER OF REJECTION.

BUT EVERY ASS IN THE COUNTRY IS LIVING ON A GRANT.

YOU FINALLY SAID SOMETHING.

DON’T YOU READ AT THE UNIVERSITIES?

I’D RATHER NOT. I CONSIDER IT PROSTITUTION. ALL THEY WANT TO DO IS…

he didn’t let me finish. GINSBERG, he said, GINSBERG READS AT THE UNIVERSITIES. AND CREELY AND OLSON AND DUNCAN AND…

I KNOW.

I reached over and got my bread.

THERE ARE ALL FORMS OF PROSTITUTION, he said.

now he was getting profound. jesus. I ran toward the vegetable department.

LISTEN, COULD I SEE YOU AGAIN, SOMETIME?

MY TIME’S SHORT. REALLY TIGHT.

he found a matchbook. HERE, PUT YOUR ADDRESS DOWN IN HERE.

oh christ, I thought, how do you get out without hurting a man’s feelings? I wrote the address down.

HOW ABOUT A PHONE NUMBER? he asked. SO YOU’LL KNOW WHEN I’M COMING OVER.

NO, NO PHONE NUMBER. I handed the book back.

WHEN’S THE BEST TIME?

IF YOU’VE GOT TO COME, MAKE IT SOME FRIDAY NIGHT AFTER TEN.

I’LL BRING A SIX-PACK. AND I’LL HAVE TO BRING MY WIFE. I’VE BEEN MARRIED 27 YEARS.

TOO BAD, I said.

OH NO. IT’S THE ONLY WAY.

HOW DO YOU KNOW? YOU DON’T KNOW ANY OTHER WAY?

IT ELIMINATES JEALOUSY AND STRIFE. YOU OUGHT TO TRY IT.

IT DOESN’T ELIMINATE, IT ADDS. AND I’VE TRIED IT.

OH, YEAH, I REMEMBER READING IT IN ONE OF YOUR POEMS. A RICH WOMAN.

we hit the vegetables. the frozen ones.

I WAS IN THE VILLAGE IN THE 30’S. I KNEW BODENHEIM. TERRIBLE. HE GOT MURDERED. LAYING AROUND IN ALLEYS LIKE THAT. MURDERED OVER SOME TRASHY WOMAN. I WAS IN THE VILLAGE THEN. I WAS A BOHEMIAN. I’M NO BEAT. AND I’M NO HIPPY. DO YOU READ THE ‘FREE PRESS’?

SOMETIMES.

TERRIBLE.

he meant that he thought the hippies were terrible. he was being profoundly sloppy.

I PAINT TOO. I SOLD A PAINTING TO MY PSYCHIATRIST. THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DOLLARS. ALL PSYCHIATRISTS ARE SICK, VERY SICK PEOPLE.

more 1933 profundity.

YOU REMEMBER THAT POEM YOU WROTE ABOUT GOING DOWN TO THE BEACH AND CLIMBING DOWN THE CLIFF TO THE SAND AND SEEING ALL THOSER LOVERS DOWN THERE AND YOU WERE ALONE AND WANTED TO GET OUT FAST, YOU GOT OUT SO FAST YOU LEFT YOUR SHOES DOWN THERE WITH THEM. IT WAS A GREAT POEM ABOUT LONELINESS.

it was a poem about how HARD it was to EVER GET alone, but I didn’t tell him that.

I picked up a package of frozen potatoes and made for the check stand. he trotted along beside me.

I WORK AS A DISPLAYMAN. IN THE MARKETS. HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR A WEEK. I ONLY HIT THE OFFICE ONCE A WEEK. I WORK FROM ELEVEN A.M. TO FOUR P.M.

ARE YOU WORKING NOW?

OH YEAH, I’M WORKING ON DISPLAYS IN HERE NOW. WISH I HAD SOME INFLUENCE. I’D GET YOU ON.

the boy at the checkstand began tabbing the groceries.

HEY! my friend yelled, DON’T MAKE HIM PAY FOR THESE GROCERIES! HE’S A POET!

the boy at the checkstand was all right. he didn’t say anything. just went on tabbing it up.

my friend screamed again: HEY! HE’S A GREAT POET! DON’T MAKE HIM PAY FOR HIS GROCERIES.

HE LIKES TO TALK, I said to the checkstand boy.

the checkstand boy was all right. I paid and took my bag.

LISTEN, I’VE GOT TO GO, I said to my friend.

somehow, he could not leave the store. some fear. he wanted to keep his good job. wonderful. it felt very good to see him standing in there by the checkstand. not trotting along beside me.

I’LL BE SEEING YOU, he said.

I waved him away from under the bag.

outside were the parked cars, and the people walking around. none of them read poetry, talked poetry, wrote poetry. for once the masses looked very reasonable to me. I got to my car, threw the stuff in and sat there a moment. a woman got out of the car next to me and I watched as her skirt fell back and showed me flashes of white leg above the stockings. one of the world’s greatest works of Art: a woman with fine legs climbing out of her car. she stood up and the skirt fell back down. for a moment she smiled at me, then she turned and moved it all, wobbling, balancing, shivering toward the grocery store. I started the car and backed out. I had almost forgotten my friend. but he wouldn’t forget me. tonight he would say:

DEAR, GUESS WHO I SAW IN THE GROCERY TODAY? HE LOOKED ABOUT THE SAME, MAYBE NOT AS BLOATED. AND HE HAS THIS LITTLE THING ON HIS CHIN.

WHO WAS IT?

CHARLES BUKOWSKI.

WHO’S THAT?

A POET. HE’S SLIPPED. HE CAN’T WRITE AS WELL AS HE USED TO. BUT HE USED TO WRITE SOME GREAT STUFF. POEMS OF LONELINESS. HE’S REALLY A VERY LONELY FELLOW BUT HE DOESN’T KNOW IT. WE’RE GOING TO SEE HIM THIS FRIDAY NIGHT.

BUT I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR.

HE WON’T CARE. HE DOESN’T LIKE WOMEN.

HE DOESN’T LIKE WOMEN?

YEAH, HE TOLD ME.

LISTEN, GUSTAV, THE LAST POET WE WENT TO SEE WAS A TERRIBLE PERSON. WE HADN’T BEEN THERE MUCH MORE THAN AN HOUR AND HE GOT DRUNK AND STARTED THROWING BOTTLES ACROSS THE ROOM AND CUSSING.

THAT WAS BUKOWSKI. ONLY HE DOESN’T REMEMBER US.

NO WONDER.

BUT HE’S VERY LONELY. WE SHOULD GO SEE HIM.

ALL RIGHT, IF YOU SAY SO, GUSTAV.

THANK YOU, SWEETIE.

don’t you wish you were Charles Bukowski? I can paint too. lift weights. and my little girl thinks that I am God.

then other times, it’s not so good.

Charles Bukowski
Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, and General Tales of Ordinary Madness (1972)

Poem

NASA's SOFIA telescope and the FORCAST instrument captured this color-composite image of the planetary nebula Minkowski 2-9 (M2-9) showing a dying sun-like star.

A star in the sky. How many words and tears,
What promises, what wishes made upon it,
How many heart-cries! For what endless years!
What dashings-off of verse and rhyme and sonnet!

Yet to the clear mind, too, it signs from heaven:
The Magi followed it with reverence;
So did the navigators…Einstein, even,
Could not without some fixed stars make sense.

Ah, to select a theme that once for all
Would captivate all men without exception –
Saint, atheist, hero, coward, freeman, thrall –
And then to realize one’s high conception
On the night’s canvas with a dot, just one.

What artist would not own himself outdone?

Nikolai Morshen (1917-2001)
The Bitter Air of Exile: Russian Writers in the West, 1922-1972

Photo: 29 March 2012: NASA’s SOFIA telescope and the FORCAST instrument captured this color-composite image of the planetary nebula Minkowski 2-9 (M2-9) showing a dying sun-like star.