This time I pay my respects to C. Bukowski, and therefore offer you this rather famous poem:
Bluebird
Charles Bukowski
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be sad.
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s still singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
but he’s still singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
The bluebird all over the world is seen as a good sign, a peace offering maybe, and also, somehow. And Bukowski uses it as a sign of vulnerability - my point of view -, and I love it.
I remembered it today because it reflects my spirit at some points in life: i'm afraid, exposed, and yet, I still want to fly. And example of it began on a Thursday night, at some uni's happy hour, right there I met someone. Broken. It won't work, yet I want it to. And far more 'yet's' later, far more eye contacts and another yet: very short time, i'm afraid it has led my mind to wa(o)nder more, it's like Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility" (ch. 12) paragraph quote:
"It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others."
I remembered it today because it reflects my spirit at some points in life: i'm afraid, exposed, and yet, I still want to fly. And example of it began on a Thursday night, at some uni's happy hour, right there I met someone. Broken. It won't work, yet I want it to. And far more 'yet's' later, far more eye contacts and another yet: very short time, i'm afraid it has led my mind to wa(o)nder more, it's like Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility" (ch. 12) paragraph quote:
"It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others."
I like the idea that my bluebird had permission to take off those days. But i kept it in. Just in case.
Nonetheless, Bukowski's bluebird can also be understood as the passage, the dying. And the last bit of B's innocence as many define it.
And the dying of it represents the ascension of our inner self to the next level in life: from youth to adulthood.
I don't quite feel so comfortable with this one point, because I don't think the kill of his last bit of innocence will take out his vulnerability and lead him to a toughness. I think vulnerability will always be there. As a Phoenix rising from the ashes (hehe, couldn't help but to make this one little joke :P).
The bluebird may not have it's first bit of innocence, but hope makes the magic, and there you are again, vulnerable.
Crossing my fingers to see the continuation of this kind of chronicle of mine in life.
Well, I guess that's that.
This is this.
Over and out.
