My Introduction to Bukowski

I first encountered Charles Bukowski as a first year undergraduate student. The exact details are, fittingly, a little blurry and probably involved some amount of alcohol. I was an avid poet at the time, attending many open stages with my laconic and sweat-stained work. I was a tough nut as a youngin' and my poetry was even tougher. Another writer in the crowd was reminded of Bukowski after one of my readings. At the time, I had no idea who Bukowski was but being compared to somebody- anybody- who actually had real live published work was enough to stimulate my nerve endings all night, like someone was playing an endless game of Criss Cross Applesauce on my back. Later, I would come to regard the comparison to Mr. Bukowski with disdain. It seemed so many writers around me were posturing as the drunk and vulgar poet persona and, thus, were often considered fraudulent. Upon reflection, I think it was more likely my simplistic word choice and low brow subject matter that inspired the original comparison (not to mention the monotone, snail's pace at which I delivered the work in oral presentation). The comparison was enough to drive me to the library. I took out his novel "Pulp" probably because of the revolver on the cover (like I said, I was a tough nut) and ate it up. It is a good thing, because it sent me back to the library where I could sink into work more 'typical' of this author. I would spend many hours over the next years of my degree program sitting on the floor in the Bukowski section sinking myself into his world and his words.

He was an ugly bastard in all the author photographs which juxtaposed so sweetly to the stuffy suit and tie academics that graced the spines of my required readings. His pock marked face and fat at once disgusted me and endeared him to me. I waxed nostalgic about the old men in starched shirts I had left behind in my hometown diner. The ones who played euchre, calling me honey and tipping me more if I let them slip the money into my breast pocket themselves. Is this who this man was? No, his writing would show me that he has both respect and class towards women. Had his characters sat in my diner, the nervous teenage waitress would have been ignored, but a more mature waitress in daisy dukes with big hair and talking the talk would have gotten back all she dished out. His characters were culturally responsive; they spoke to a woman in a context appropriate to her representations. I do not pretend to think that this is a model approach to differentiating treatment of women. Having said that, I'd rather have served him a burger than most of the men in my south western Ontario small town!

As my degree program continued, I found myself interested in the work of Luce Irigaray, Julia Kristeva and Simone de Beauvoir. I took many feminist philosophy courses, developing a strong foundation in body politics and women's role as 'other'.  My appreciation of  Bukowski became increasingly harder to uphold within my personal ethics while also growing and developing exponentially. How could I effectively implement social change as it pertains to women while holding in reverie the very bricks that have kept us captive? It is my intention to try to reconcile at least some of this disparity in these pages.