Living in a shitty room in Hellertown, PA and moving out of the shitty room

3/18/19 21:41 Hellertown, PA

Yesterday, was a busy Sunday.  I attended a service at the UCC in town, this is the progressive UCC compared to the conservative UCC and felt welcomed and comfortable during the coffee hour.  It’s not very common when I’d accept the coffee and the company of strangers.  I spoke to some of the men.  It’s not a good idea to socialize with the women, unless they’re above a certain age and the safety net is tossed. I smiled at the kids and babies.  The generations in the room who had grown up in the church.  I met two men named Kurt which is an uncommon name on Long Island.  I may go back and may get involved in their garden.   I ran 7 miles yesterday through the Saucon trail and was impressed with how many runners were out.  Some were running hard and others were out for the clean air.  Watched two hawks circling in the warm air, glanced at the streams flowing under the bridges. Song birds were out.  The first day of Spring is on Wednesday.  I’m finding my name is not that common in the area, but I digress.  I am tired.  It’s that time of the night when I can either do something productive of get lost in the internet, for instance finding a yoga studio.  I was looking for one in Bethlehem since I am moving.  Yes, I am moving again.  This is one of those examples when I should have listened to my gut and passed on the place where I am currently living.  I don’t want to go into too much detail, but I feel deep down, this shit hole would be warmly welcomed by a young Charles Bukowski.  He would be comfortable, with a door without a door knob, without a real lock, the hook and eye is all I got to block any intruder.   There is carpet on the floors.  The carpet is stained and loose.  So what, the window is cracked and was taped over, perhaps it was taped over decades ago with that thin brown translucent tape, and someone pulled it off - maybe - seven years ago, leaving dried brown strips, now etched into the dirty surface of the glass.  It is still cracked, like a tree branch.  What caused it?  A fit of jealous rage?  I asked the landlord a few times since being here, when was he going to fix it.  He will hire a handyman.  He had a busy week at work.  He had an excuse.  The handyman is busy as well.  So what, there is a draft coming through the shitty windows. So what, the advertised phrase – quiet – was not that accurate for this house…on a busy street…trucks and endless commuters pass by starting at 0500, they are driving to the main highway in the area.  There is 78 with all of its lanes and there is the road in front of this house with two congested lanes.  I should have listened to my gut.  The landlord wanted me to share a mini fridge with the other roomer up here, wanted me to hang my clothes on something since there is not a closet.  So, I wrestled with the idea, having two different curtains, sealing the windows with foam, which I bought.  It was all a good motivator to buy something in the area.  The only problem is the room is not quiet or peaceful and I don’t sleep very well on the shitty twin bed that came with the room.  Like new it was advertised.  Maybe when Hank Aaron played for the Milwaukee Braves, then and only then it was new. There is not a dresser, nor a desk, nothing to put my clothes in.  I pull the different color curtains over the shitty windows and sit on a hard chair in the kitchen.  I was motivated and found another place.  Yesterday.  It all took place yesterday.  This one is in Bethlehem.  Get this, the rent is the same.  There is a living room, a dining room and a big kitchen.  There is a back yard and I am in walking distance to Main Street, to the brewery and the yoga studios, the book store, the oldest in the world, and I can go for runs through the town and I will sleep soundly in the bigger bed and quiet room.  There are new windows in the room, and the curtains are the same color.  There is a huge closet and a dresser and in a few weeks, I will move into this place since I made the wrong choice when I picked this dump.  Reminds me of when I lived in Coram for a month, 24 years ago. Same deal.  I knew I made a mistake, but moved in and regretted each morning I woke up there.  So, maybe a month is not bad after all?

Thank you for reading this.

The Lost Art of Writing Letters

1/25/14 21:30

I’m thinking of Andy Rooney at this moment since over the last few months, I have sent out a few letters to writers and none responded.  Why not?  What happened to the art of writing a letter?  Are we too wrapped up in the email, Twitters and Face Books, blogs, instant grams, and anything else which are forms of communication, but let’s be honest - most are displays or reports of our lives.  This is different.  Writing and sending a letter through the post office takes time and patience.  I think of years ago when I’d write to Charles Bukowski or William S. Burroughs, James Purdy, Tess Gallagher and all wrote back.  There were the baseball players like Bobby Richardson, Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams.  They wrote back.  There was the typical waiting period after sending a letter.  It may take a couple of weeks, maybe three…at most.   But each time I would receive a letter or a card back.  The idea is to write a letter of appreciation for their work and perhaps ask for some advice or if they would consider reading some of my writing.  The response I received was a gesture of their gratefulness since I took the time to write a letter.  All of the writers I mentioned said I could send some of my work, and I received their insight.  Charles Bukowski edited one of my poems since he was too hung over to write.  These letters were a distant connection, but we met through our words and our pens.  Sure, it takes time for someone to write the letter and print it, fold the paper, place a stamp on it and write the address on the outside.  What has happened to the intimate moments when we can feel the words under our eyes and read the letter more times than just deleting it?  Filing it?  What has happened?  Are we impulsive and inpatient?  I can agree to certain correspondence which an email will suffice especially for business and to check in, but a thank you letter in recognition for a writer’s work or an artist and I’m including sports stars - should not be an email.  So, I will keep on writing and hope a good person out there would take the time and respond.  There may come a time when writing a letter will become antiquated and I guess it has, but I hope we don’t forget how to fill out an envelope and write a letter.  Perhaps letter writing will return like the sound of music on an LP which sounds richer and increased the sales of the album.  Maybe we can go back and write letters?  Last week I sent two letters.  Maybe some of those I wrote to… misplace my letters since the weeks have turned into months; I’m still waiting for Jim Harrison, Russell Baker, Harvey Mackay, and President Carter to respond…and you too Stephen King.  My grandmother told us, patience is a virtue, seldom found in a woman and never found in a man.  I’m waiting Grand Ma…still waiting….Mr. Harrison reads...

 Thank you for reading this

Bukowski Rakes it in at Belmont

5/27/13 21:40

Since I mowed and raked into the night I gave myself a rest today.  It is memorial day and a time to consider the men and women who sacrificed their lives for us.  I worked a little, cleaned out the toilets and then took Emma and Bella to Belmont.  That makes two of my summer goals notched down for this year.  A Pawtuckett Red Sox game and horse racing Belmont.  It was a beautiful day to be at the track, not too hot or cool.  The sky was clear although for Bella the ride was longer than she expected.  I took out sixty and came back with less than ten dollars.  Ten for Emma and I to get in.  Twenty for fries and two pretzels, a beer and hot chocolate, and a soda, more fries and drinks except not another beer although I could have gone for another.  And we bet close to ten dollars on two races.  Emma took some great pictures.  I wanted to be there since I read one of Bukowski’s last books, The Captain in Out…it was more of a journal.  Each day he spent  at the tracks and saw the pitiful faces of the betters who were looking for that strike.  The ghosts were there.  Bukowski was contemplating his next wager.  I saw the skeletons and canes, screaming at the horses as they turned the bend, getting up close to the track and waving, holing their tickets or for a few - jumping for joy with dangling cigarettes, small hats, beat up chests...they assumed this is was it feels like to be a winner.  Thin old men with tired eyes some spending $4 on a draft beer.  Man with an opened shirt and gold watches and slicked back hair buying a hot dog like it was his last meal on earth.  The scattered ripped tickets covering the floor; the remnants of lost dreams…the accents of poorly dressed dark men who appeared to contain so much knowledge of the races, speaking Creole, talking out loud and smiling easily. Beer cans.  Cigarettes, cigars, the desperation in the faces as their tired bodies wilt after the race…the men who for the most part sit alone and take in the elements, the flying dirt, the romance of a dying tradition.  I thought of Bukowski.  Imagined he was sitting across from me.  I’d see him circle a winner in his racing forum and follow him up to a window.  Excuse me, Bill Blake I presume?  Yeah or Li Po.  This is what New York is all about baby.  Take some cash and make it happen on the horses.   I am changing my profile picture on Google since Emma’s picture was good.  Came home and Ali was making a BBQ.  Had another beer with dinner.  Ali and I discussed the summer, asking the girls to alternate days to take care of Joe and Bella.  I wanted us to just be.  No plans just chill out.  But that didn’t work.  I had another beer outside. I can fall asleep now.

Thank you for reading this.

Jack Kerouac brooding in a corner at City Lights Book store

5/25/12 08:50 at the Marriott in Burlingame The wind in this area has been incredible, it’s chilly. Each day after the trade show we’d leave the hotel and feel the hit of the fierce winds, but the jets are still taking off and landing and life continues in this valley. Yesterday was one of those long days. Even after a decent night’s sleep my legs are weak. Earlier I had my shoes polished by a woman in the lobby, I’ve seen her day after day and we passed pleasantries, last night she said it was a slow day. I promised her I’d be back in the morning for a shine, and I am a man of my word. I gave her a great tip since it sounds as if her and her husband are having a tough time with the rent and bills, and they have a little girl. When I asked how much, she said $8 and I handed her a $20 and said thank you. Another man took a seat and she had another customer, hopefully she is busy for the rest of the day. So why am I tired? I went for a run early yesterday, facing the sun rising over the bay, running at a decent pace behind two runners on a trail that borders the bay, watching jets land at San Francisco airport. Worked out for a little while and had breakfast up at the concierge level. After my shower I answered some emails and met Terry downstairs and we were off to the Hyatt where the trade show was. Jim and Kevin, both salesmen from one of our clients invited me to dinner with them. I had time to relax for almost an hour before they picked me up. Traffic on the highway was horrendous; the commuters were getting a jump on the memorial day weekend. We passed Candlestick stadium where Dave and I saw the Giants VS the Mets in the late eighties. After twenty minutes we were driving in the center of San Fran. I was impressed with the modern architecture, the simple rectangle frame condo buildings. We passed the new baseball stadium which is right on the water, and parked the car, and headed into terminal, where we ate in the Crooked Door. Jim graduated from a local culinary school and picked the restaurant. The place was packed and the food which he picked was incredible. They were family dishes, and the various plates kept coming, fish, beef and chicken as well as steamed clams and raw oysters. We had local beers which had a heavier consistency compared to the Anchor I requested and the name I forget. Jim was nice enough to switch seats with me so I can look across the bay to treasure island and watch the swift tide swell up. After dinner we made it to the place I really wanted to get to, City Lights Book Store. The link between Keroauc, Northport and Bukowski is significant enough for me to find a way to walk through the doors. When Jim invited me to dinner I was reluctant, I was ready to take a local BART train to the city and find the store on my own, but Jim was open to the idea of going there after we ate, maybe since I bought dinner for them? I accomplished one of my objectives for this trip to the area. Once I was outside the store back in the late eighties when I lived in Los Gatos and came to the city for a show, but it was closed by the time we got there. This time, I knew it would be open. We drove up a hill, is that telegraph hill I asked Jim who grew up in the area, yes it is. Nice. The neighborhood where the store is in is grungy. There is a Beat Museum catering to the beatnik tourist which was closed. There are topless bars where men in cheap suits stand outside and try to entice you to come in and see the show. We spent a little time in the book store, I knew the guys were not interested spending anytime in there. Over dinner Jim said the best president he experienced was Ronald Reagan, I kept my mouth shut. The store was cleaner than I imagined. There were more paperbacks than hardcover but their poetry section which was on the second floor was extensive. There are paintings which Ferlinghetti made which are more like statements, read books…and other notions, but the sense this place was and is a tourist magnet was obvious from the $2 City Lights bumper sticker and the T-shirts for all sizes even for infants…I confess I bought a t-shirt. After the store we walked to a small restaurant, called Bix, it’s in an alley and can be easily missed. The place was intimate, classy, and I was given a lesson on scotch by Kevin who graduated from Annapolis. It was sipped and savored, I drank 21 year-old scotch and enjoyed it. I am a beer drinker by design and attitude. I drank scotch years ago but it was always, on the rocks which Kevin said deadens the taste buds on the tongue. So, I made it back in one piece. Kevin asked if getting to City Lights was on my bucket list, and I should have said yes. I explained it was one of the places I wanted to make it to before leaving. In a few hours I will fly out of here and meet Jason in Los Angeles. I’m looking forward to seeing him and his family…but I need to wake up!

Reading Buk's Post Office in a day

This past Saturday I went to the library to pick up a CD and to find a good book to read. The day before I finished Knut Hamsun’s Hunger while riding the train back home. I’ve been on a mission to read more often. In the past I would consider Bukowski’s Post Office as one of my all time favorites. I took out a paperback edition and read the whole thing in one day. For me that’s quite an accomplishment. My wife, Ali can tear through a book if it grabs her. I enjoyed the book, it was a good story, but was disturbed by the Bukowski’s alter ego, Henry Chinanski brutalized women, referred to his girl friend as bitch and the outright rape scenes. What sucks is that every woman wants to fuck Henry. To depict all women this way is an insult. This book was published in the era of women’s rights, bra burning and sexual equality, but this book kicks all these rights in the ass. Instead of getting distracted by this, I’d like to point out that his writing is bare minimum, straight shooter and at times had me laughing out loud. His boss was a sadist. They worked Henry to the bone. He played the horses. He was written up countless times by his superiors for any infraction, but he didn’t care and this is what appeals to most, his fuck you attitude. You can say its punk, but this was written by an older man at the insistence/encouragement of his publisher, John Martin who felt a novel would be more marketable. Poems could only sell so much, and I think Post Office was his first novel.

Charles Bukowski edits one of my poems

So what was it like to have Charles Bukowski edit one of my poems? How did it happen? These are the questions when my secret gets out. It’s not something I usually share, but I thought it would be a good blog entry.
I didn’t know who Charles Bukowski was until a fellow student in my writing class at Purchase College said my work reminded him of Buk’s. I forget the student’s name, but he looked like a dark creature with faded scars on his face, sad warped eyes and banged up, stained yellow teeth. He wanted me to write for his local paper, but I had heard somewhere that journalism ruined many fiction writers. Not interested I declared! What an ignorant twit I was…and still am in some ways. Anyway, I wasn’t sure how to take the comparison to Bukowski. Another student said my work reminded her of a David Lynch film. What? But I read up on Buk and learned he was a poet as well. I found a used copy of Tales of Ordinary Madness, which is a collection of his shorts. The original title, something about erections… would cause all of his works to be banned from my parent’s house. I was not impressed and to be honest, I was a little insulted to be compared to him. Buk was a stark difference to what I then considered literature: John Steinbeck, Hemingway, Faulkner & Ian Flemming. Not sure why I added Ian, but it gives you an idea of where my mind was. Oh, to be ignorant. I searched for his poetry at the book stores and couldn’t find any, so I figured he wasn’t a good poet till I came across one of his poems in an English lit text book. I liked the poem, and if I remember it was about his fondness for the color yellow. Years ago there was a thick book in the Port Jefferson library which included the addresses of American authors. It gave a brief summary and a bio. Bukowski was born in Germany and I imagined his struggles with the English language and assumed he had an accent. I wrote a letter to Buk asking who influenced his work and if he would read my poems. I included three poems I had scribbled that weekend in pencil and sent them off.
He wrote back. I can still see the hand written envelope and then opening up the letter on blue pages. He said he received many letters just like mine. “I’m too hung over to write the good stuff so I respond to yours.” And he mentioned something I wrote in my letter, “luckily you like Tolstoy, I found him to be a bore.” He did edit one of the poems. “Your poem needs tightening it should read…” I will find the letter and make a copy and attach it to this entry in the near future. His influences, Li Po, Fante (I had heard of neither) Dostoevsky…and some others.
After the first letter there were a couple of others. I read more of his works and found books of his poetry and read some of his short story collections. I sent him copies of the comic books he did with R Crumb which he signed and mailed back. Another time, I found a picture in a lit magazine of him sitting in his office at his desk; radio against the wall, an electric typewriter with stiff keys waiting to be struck and I imagined his German accent whispering to the photographer, hurry up and take the fuchin ‘ shot. After he passed, Black Sparrow published some books of his letters. I had the opportunity to speak to John Martin, the publisher. When I mentioned the letter, he said it was rare, for the fact that Buk had edited the poem and I should hold onto it, but he could not use the letter.
I need to find the letter.
Tell you what, if you’re interested in reading one of my shorts and a poem, I will send them to you. Send me an email and let me know after you read the work if I still write like Buk.
trainwriter@gmail.com
If you’re truly courageous, than please buy a copy of my novel, Killer Commute on Champagne Books
www.Champagnebooks.com