Anime Sketched by Dali for Disney

Dali & Disney – Destino

The film tells the story of Chronos, the personification of time and the inability to realize his desire to love for a mortal. The scenes blend a series of surreal paintings of Dali with dancing and metamorphosis. The target production began in 1945, 58 years before its completion and was a collaboration between Walt Disney and the Spanish surrealist painter, Salvador Dalí. Salvador Dali and Walt Disney Destiny was produced by Dali and John Hench for 8 months between 1945 and 1946. Dali, at the time, Hench described as a “ghostly figure” who knew better than Dali or the secrets of the Disney film. For some time, the project remained a secret. The work of painter Salvador Dali was to prepare a six-minute sequence combining animation with live dancers and special effects for a movie in the same format of “Fantasia.” Dali in the studio working on The Disney characters are fighting against time, the giant sundial that emerges from the great stone face of Jupiter and that determines the fate of all human novels. Dalí and Hench were creating a new animation technique, the cinematic equivalent of “paranoid critique” of Dali. Method inspired by the work of Freud on the subconscious and the inclusion of hidden and double images.

Dalí said: “Entertainment highlights the art, its possibilities are endless.” The plot of the film was described by. Dalí as “A magical display of the problem of life in the labyrinth of time.”

Walt Disney said it was “A simple story about a young girl in search of true love.”

 PS: You get a better view with green/red 3D viewing device (glasses) on a split screen. Available on youtube easily.

William Seward Burroughs

Destroy All Rational Thought

This documentary celebrating the life works of Brion Gysin and William Burroughs features one of the last interviews with William Burroughs and previously unseen vintage footage of him during the 50s and early 60s. – The great Beat Generation experiments took place in Tangier, the Moroccan city where William Burroughs, Brion Gysin, and the Moroccan painter Hamri taught Jack Kerouac, Timothy Leary, and Allen Ginsberg how to live outside the law. This DVD features one of the last interviews with Burroughs and previously unseen vintage footage of him in his prime during the 50s and early 60s. Also featured are The Master Musicians of Joujouka collaborating with avant garde Dublin musicians, veterans of the Tangier Beat Scene, and cutting edge writers. In addition, there is music from Bill Laswell, The Baby Snakes, plus contributions from Ira Cohen, Hakim Bey, Brian Downey (Thin Lizzy) and many others.

On Burroughs, The Adding Machine, & Blurbophobia

by

I see that Grove Press has just put out a spanking new edition of The Adding Machine by William S. Burroughs. I also see it has what Grove calls on the front cover a “new” introduction by James Gauerholz, the numero uno keeper of the righteous Burroughs flame. Since there never was an old introduction, I wonder what Grove means by “new.” I know there was an old edition, though, because I reviewed it. That’s where the blurb on the back cover comes from:

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I’m not one of those blurbophic reviewers fearful of having their words distorted. I’m glad my words were used, even if they’ve been turned into a cliché stripped of nuance. Burroughs always said nobody owns words (although, as Grauerholz informs us in the intro, “he didn’t look the other way from any serious infringement of his copyright”). But for the record, here’s what I really said:

Future biographers of William Burroughs will be grateful for this volume of selected essays, and so will longtime fans of his work. A sheer pleasure to read, it consists of vintage material that appeared over the years in all sorts of fugitive magazines and newspapers of the so-called underground.

Whether closely reasoned or wildly imagined, the essays are always wonderfully entertaining on a host of topics from national security, British royalty and the meaning of coincidence to junk, sex, women and space travel. Besides providing the useful service of collecting these 43 short essays in one place — even if it doesn’t give a clue to precisely where they first appeared — The Adding Machine should make newcomers to Burroughs’ work happy as well.

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Judging from the topics alone, the essays seem to me as relevant as ever. Burroughs was so prescient it’s beyond uncanny. Would I write the same review today? Probably not. I would have changed some things, knowing what I know now. My old rave overlooked what Grauerholz reveals in his intro about the tortured history and careless editorial process behind the 1986 first edition. I was unaware at the time that the essays were put together almost randomly and that the book was rushed into print by a publisher fearful of having it withdrawn when Burroughs changed literary agents.

The irony, in my admittedly rearguard view (not shared by specialists or academics), is that that sort of editorial haste didn’t hurt Naked Lunch, the literary masterpiece central to Burroughs’s career in all its manifestations and still his chief claim to a lasting legacy. But in hindsight, and with the corrective Adding Machine intro in hand, I see what Grauerholz is getting at. The signs of haste in the original edition — redundant material, awkward lapses, and lack of documentation (as mentioned) — are more readily apparent. Given a choice, however, I still would rather have had the book with its flaws than no book at all.

The review continued:

To impart the flavor of this collection, which covers just about every aspect of his career, style and subject (with an emphasis on writing and writers), there is a great temptation to quote at random.

Here is Burroughs defending himself against the accusation of being a misogynist: “Women may well be a biological mistake; I said so in The Job. But so is almost everything else I see around here.”

And here he is discussing the art of fiction: “Often an early death is the kindest gift a writer can bestow on a beloved character, and Gatsby and Lord Jim both shimmer and glow from the love bestowed upon them by their creators.” Or describing the fool’s bargain some writers make with the Devil: “Maugham expected to be placed in the very first rank of second-raters. Sorry, Mr. Maugham, there is no such category. Even the position of the second-rater is earned by some first-rate work.”

Now, in keeping with Burroughs’ montage experiments, for which his writing is famous, we cut up the previous paragraphs and came out with this: “To give the flavor and glow from the love bestowed on The Adding Machine Gatsby expected death the kindest Lord Jim sorry Mr. Maugham a writer can bestow no such character …” and so on.

The results may be uneven or contradictory, but some gem-like phrases will pan out — “death the kindest Lord Jim” — and Burroughs claims the technique has predicted events before they happened. Anybody can cut up words, of course. But what Burroughs does with his raw materials is magical. In fact, his unorthodox views on the “technology of writing” and how he “abandoned the fetish of originality” are among the most liberating around.

“You see, I had been conditioned to the idea of words as property — one’s ‘very own words’ — and consequently to a deep repugnance for the black sin of plagiarism,” he explains, adding: “Why in a Jack London story a writer shoots himself when he finds out he has, without knowing it, plagiarized another writer’s work. He did not have the courage to be a writer. I was made of sterner or at least more adjustable stuff.”

The late Brion Gysin, a close friend and early collaborator, pointed out to Burroughs that he’d been stealing for years: “Where did that come from — ‘Eyes old, unbluffed, unreadable?’ And that — ‘inflexible authority?’ and that ‘arty type, no principles.’ And that — and that — and that? He looked at me sternly, ‘Vous êtes un voleur honteux . . . a closet thief.’”

So they drew up a manifesto declaring that nobody owns words. “Everything belongs to the inspired and dedicated thief.” Many artists know this, but who among them will admit it?

I recall Nelson Algren, who was totally unlike Burroughs, once telling me: “The difference between a good writer and a bad one is that the good writer is a better thief.”

Bull B.

Burroughs not only admits it, he makes a theory of composition out of it. And he is nothing if not thorough. Carrying the idea to its logical conclusion, he points out that he has made composite characters from various sources — Joseph Conrad is one of his favorites — and has superimposed whole sets and backgrounds from one novel to another.

Yet this volume adds up, not as a series of thefts, but as a generous gift of secrets. For Burroughs refuses to hoard them. Indeed, these essays, which are filled with judicious assessments and penetrating insights on Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Proust and Beckett, have that delicious mixture of intellect and imagination that makes him an original.

I still stand by this ancient review. Though had I known then what I learned later about the Biosphere II communards John Allen and the Ecotechnics Institute, I might have offered a demurral to Burroughs’ admiration for them. But so be it.

Clarification: Dec. 21 — Having just checked the 1986 Adding Machine, I see there’s no mention of the Biosphere II communards. It is Grauerholz in his intro to the new edition who says that Burroughs prepared the text of one of the essays, “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” for an international conference “under the auspices of the worldwide network of the Ecotechnics Institute.” He notes further:

John Allen and their longtime leader-catalyst Kathelin Gray became our good friends in fall 1974 when Burroughs and I first went to Santa Fe, New Mexico, to learn about the institute’s research and their many projects. The latter were ambitious and worldwide; over time, they culminated in Biosphere II near Oracle, Arizona: an enormous, glass-and-steel “greenhouse pyramid” completely sealed off from Biosphere I (i.e., the Earth’s atmosphere and habitats). This was a prototype for the kind of self-sustaining biological environment that might make it possible for humankind to survive “off-Earth…”

Unfortunately, Biosphere II never achieved its original goal. Plagued by mismanagement, engineering malfunctions, and scientific missteps, the 3-acre ecological fantasy eventually became a $150-million tourist attraction and had to be rescued as a student research center first by Columbia University, which finally gave up on it, and later by the University of Arizona.

 

Rip!: A Remix Manifesto

Sharon Tate

THE SIX DEGREES OF SHARON TATE| MAO, MCQUEEN, MANSON AND MAD MEN

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1967– Sharon Tate for a spread in Esquire Magazine, 1967, in a t-shirt printed with the Vietnam Star. –Photo by William Helburn

May 30, 2013

So this is what the internets are recently abuzz about– The Mad Men costume designer channeling the essence of Sharon Tate, circa Esquire Magazine 1969, by placing the same Vietnam Star T-shirt on Megan Draper. Which, mind you– was probably not for sale at your local Hot Topic, head shop, or Amazon.com back then, so kinda random and creepy. It’s a pretty good ploy to generate some buzz– made me look twice, and I haven’t watched the show in a few years now. Probably exactly what they were going for. I will say, for the record, that the original photography by William Helburn is amazing– downright titillating, even.

But if you find this kind of stuff remotely interesting, the real tingler is how Steve McQueen himself almost ended up a part of the Manson massacre, and could have shared in Sharon Tate and the other’s gruesome fate…

 

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Sharon Tate for Esquire magazine, 1967 –Photo by William Helburn

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Sharon Tate for Esquire magazine, 1967 –Photo by William Helburn

 

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1967– Sharon Tate for a spread in Esquire Magazine, 1967, in a t-shirt printed with the Vietnam Star. –Photo by William Helburn

 

From The Daily Mail, the alleged accounts of McQueen’s infidelities and loathsome ways that put him on the road to creeps-ville, and in the path of Manson’s murderous crew–

”For years, as his [a young Steve McQueen’s] career failed to ignite, he leeched off a successful dancer called Neile Adams — spending her earnings on new cars, drugs and other women.

Eventually marrying her in 1956, he landed a small role soon afterwards in the film of Harold Robbins’s trashy novel, Never Love A Stranger. Within days, he’d embarked on an intensely sexual affair with the film’s leading lady actress Lita Milan — and then proudly told his wife about it. According to Neile: ‘Lita would be the first in a long line of flings that would plague me throughout our married life. OK, I thought, I can handle it — I have to — as long as he doesn’t flaunt it.”

But, as McQueen’s career gathered pace, he never stopped flaunting his affairs — with co-stars including Jacqueline Bisset and Lee Remick, not to mention a host of starlets and fans. Perhaps as a test of his wife’s devotion, he made indiscreet phone calls within her hearing and left lipstick smudges on his shirts (and trousers) and love notes in his pockets.

By 1960, Neile had given up work and given birth to a son and daughter. Still struggling to be the kind of wife he wanted, she’d boil up the high-grade peyote he bought from Navajo Indians, and then disappear while McQueen got stoned with his friends.

He also started going for all-night benders at the Whisky a Go Go club on the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, where he met one of his chief partners in crime: a womanising hairdresser called Jay Sebring. The two men, fuelled by alcohol and cocaine, shared the sexual favours of a Bambi-eyed starlet called Sharon Tate, often in the same bed at the same time. And their friendship continued even after she married the director Roman Polanski.

 

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Sharon Tate for Esquire magazine, 1967 –Photo by William Helburn

On the afternoon of August 7, 1969, Sebring went to McQueen’s house to give him a trim and suggested they attend a party that evening at Sharon’s house. McQueen said he’d be there. Before setting out, however, he was called by a young and beautiful blonde he was seeing at the time. Come along to the party, he said — but she told him she had a better idea for just the two of them.

Thus, by a whisker, Steve McQueen avoided being massacred by the Manson ‘family’, the hippie followers of the manipulative psychopath Charles Manson, who butchered Tate and three guests — including Sebring, who was shot and stabbed. Ironically, McQueen’s adultery had saved his life.

Two months later, when the killers were arrested, police discovered McQueen’s name on a hit-list of people whom Manson had decided to kill. It turned out that someone at McQueen’s production company had once rejected a screenplay by Manson. From then on, the actor carried a loaded Magnum at all times.

 

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Letter written to McQueen’s attorney, Edward “Eddie” Rubin on Le Mans / Solar Productions letterhead, by Steve McQueen, documenting his concerns about Charles Manson and his murdering crew of misfits. He, as wells as, Elizabeth Taylor, Frank Sinatra, and Tome Jones (good company…) were believed, through an investigation of the murders, to be targeted for assassination by Charles Manson’s crew.

 

Original article published in

 

SOCIAL DISEASE

”I WILL GO TO THE OPENING OF ANYTHING, INCLUDING A TOILET SEAT”

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-Andy Warhol

I have social disease, I have to go out every night. If I stay home one nogtht spreading rumors to my dogs. Once I stayed home for a week and my dogs had a nervous breakdown. I love going out every night. It’s so exciting. I paint until the last minute and then go home for my first dinner of the night. I always have something simple and nutritious, because I don’t trust food anywhere but home. My favorite dinner is turkey and mashed potatoes-it looks clean.

I usually go out with one kid from my office-the Factory-like Fred Hugues, my business manager, or Bob Colacello, the editor of my magazine Interview. Enployees make the best dates. You don’t have to pick them up and they’re always tax-deductible. I also like the feeling of having several of having several of my employees all around a party-it’s like being at the office.

You really have Social Disease when you make all play work. The only reason to play hard is to work hard, not the other way around like most  people think. That’s why I take my tape recorder everywhere I can. I also take my camera everywhere. Having a few rolls of film to develop gives me a good reason to get up in the morning.

I love the new, small, automatic-focus 35mm cameras like Minox and Konica. That’s what I used for the photos in this book. I think anybody can take a good picture. My idea of a good picture is one that’s in focus and a famous person doing something unfamous. It’s being in the right place at the wrong time. That’s why my favorite photographer is Ron Galella.

But back to m,y nightlife. After I’ve filled my plastic shopping bag from Brownie’s Health Food Shop with TDK ninety-minutes tapes, Kodak, TX-36 black-and-white film, and Duracell Alkaline AA batteries, I run out to my first party of the evening. I ususally catch the tail end of a cokctail party, then go to a couple of dinners, stop off at Le Club, Regine’s, or Xenon, and end up at Studio 54. Or I go to a SoHo opening, a Broadway opening, a boutique opening, a restaurant opening-when it opens I go. When it cloeses, I go too. I just go. That’s Social Disease.

The symptoms of Social Disease: You want to go out every night because you’re afraid if you stay home you might miss something. You choose your friends according to wether or not they have a limousine. You prefer exhiliration to conversation unless the subject is gossip. You judge a party by how many celebreties are there-if they serve caviar they don’t have any celebrities. When you wake up in the morning, the first thing you do is read the society columns. If your name is actually mentionned your day is made. Publicity is the ultimate symptom of Social Disease. But you know it’s fatal when you don’t want to get rid of it. You couldn’t anyway. How do you catch Social Disease? By kissing someone on both cheeks. Kissing people on both cheeks started out in France, like most diseases. It’s the society thing to do. Socialites never shakes hands. It hurts too much.

People say there’s no such thing as Society anymore. I think they’re wrong. There’s a new kind of Society. Now it doesn’t matter if you came over on the Mayflower, so long as you can get in Studio 54. Anyone rich, powerfull, beautiful, or famous can get into Society. If you’re a few of those things you can really get to the top.

This book is about the people at the top, or around the top. But the top’s the bottom. Everyone up there has Social Disease…

It’s the bubonic plague of our time, the black and white life and death.

Andy Warhol

Andy and some of the Factory regulars, photo by Dennis Hopper, 1963.
Andy and some of the Factory regulars, photo by Dennis Hopper, 1963.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Coolest Year in Hell

NEW YORK CITY IN 1977: A BEAUTIFUL ROCK AND ROLL HELLHOLE

by Marc Campbell  in Dangerous Minds

Punk, disco, hip hop, the blackout, Son of Sam, Tony Manero, CBGB, Studio 54, Max’s Kansas City, Show World, Paradise Garage, cocaine, polyester and leather—1977 in New York City was exhilarating, a nightmare, fun, dangerous and never boring. It was the year I arrived in downtown Manhattan with a beautiful woman, no money and a rock and roll band. I hit the streets running and never looked back…unless it was to watch my back.Blackout

 

I was living in the decaying Hotel Earle in the West Village when NYC went black. The power failure of July 13, 1977 knocked the city to its knees. I was sitting on the window sill of my room keeping cool or as cool as one could keep during a sweltering summer night in the city. I was drinking a nice cold beer and listening to the music of the streets when at around 9:30 p.m. everything suddenly went completely dark…and I mean dark, dark as Aleister Crowley’s asshole. It was the strangest fucking thing you could imagine. One moment the city was there, then next it was gone. The only illumination came from automobile headlights lacerating the night like ghostly Ginsu knives. My girlfriend and I clutched hands and felt our way down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. We walked to Bleecker street in spooky darkness. We weren’t alone. The avenues were teeming with the dazed and confused. Not that unusual for the Village, but the confusion was different. Was the world coming to an end? disco fever

By midnight the streets were mobbed with people who had figured out that civilization wasn’t ending, it was on vacation. There was a festive vibe in the air. It was like Mardi Gras for the blind. The bars and pubs that stayed open were candlelit and booze was flowing for free. Refrigerators weren’t working and there was no way to keep perishables from spoiling so instead of facing the prospect of throwing food away some joints were feeding people for free. A few cabbies got into the spirit of things and maneuvered their taxis in such a way as to shine their headlights into the cafes providing diners with surreal mood lighting. It was a prison break theme park. And this wild night was bringing out the best in New Yorkers. But it didn’t last. As the blackout continued through the next day and night, things started to change. The novelty of the crisis wore off and it got ugly. What had started out as a party turned into looting and violence. An unexpected payday for the poor and desperate.

The blackout put the whole gamut of what makes New York marvelous and miserable on display: the “I got your back, brother” slamming into the “fuck you!”ra1

These were times when the city was an unseemly beast, a scabrous, moulting fat rat that was exciting to look at but terrifying. Part of the excitement came from the ever present sense that things could go haywire at any minute. I lived intensely in the moment, acutely aware of everything around me, jacked up in a state of heightened consciousness that was both Zen and manic. Being in the here and now of New York City in 1977 wasn’t a hippie thing, it was survival. And when I got inside the safety zone of Max’s or CBGB, among my tribe, I was ready to get fucked up, to get high, to dance and celebrate.

In the city of night, we went to bed at dawn and rose at dusk. We were vampires before vampires became hip.

NY77: The Coolest Year In Hell is a terrific documentary that captures a pivotal moment in the history of a city and its pop culture. Here’s the whole beautiful mess.

Andrei Tarkovsky

“The Past is just a Story we are telling ourselves. ” -Her                                                                             The Past is just a Story we are telling ourselves.Still from Stalker, Andrei Tarkovski

Omnibus 1978

Hunter S. Thompson 

 

THE WAVE…

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 “Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era—the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder’s jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”

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Favorite Quotes

-The hippies , who had never really believed they were the wave of the future anyway, saw the election results as brutal confirmation of the futility of fighting the establishment on its own terms. There had to be a whole new scene, they said, and the only way to do it was to make the big move — either figuratively or literally — from Berkeley to the Haight-Ashbury, from pragmatism to mysticism, from politics to dope… The thrust is no longer for “change” or “progress” or “revolution,” but merely to escape, to live on the far perimeter of a world that might have been.HS Thompson

-Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men’s reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of ‘the rat race’ is not yet final.

-Bush is a natural-born loser with a filthy-rich daddy who pimped his son out to rich oil-mongers. He hates music football and sex, in no particular order, and he is no fun at all.

-There are times, however, and this is one of them, when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It’s a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die. Who knows? If there is in fact, a heaven and a hell, all we know for sure is that hell will be a viciously overcrowded version of Phoenix — a clean well lighted place full of sunshine and bromides and fast cars where almost everybody seems vaguely happy, except those who know in their hearts what is missing… And being driven slowly and quietly into the kind of terminal craziness that comes with finally understanding that the one thing you want is not there. Missing. Back-ordered. No tengo. Vaya con dios. Grow up! Small is better. Take what you can get…

-Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish — a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow — to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested…

-Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other – that kept me going.

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-But with the throttle screwed on, there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right… and that’s when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are the wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it… howling through a turn to the right, then to the left, and down the long hill to Pacifica… letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge… The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others- the living- are those who pushed their luck as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it’s In. The association of motorcycles and LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.

-But speaking of rules, you’ve been arrested dozens of times in your life. Specific incidents aside, what’s common to these run-ins? Where do you stand vis-à-vis the law?
“Goddammit. Yeah, I have. First, there’s a huge difference between being arrested and being guilty. Second, see, the law changes and I don’t. How I stand vis-à-vis the law at any given moment depends on the law. The law can change from state to state, from nation to nation, from city to city. I guess I have to go by a higher law. How’s that? Yeah, I consider myself a road man for the lords of karma.”

-America… just a nation of two hundred million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns and no qualms about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.Hunter_S._Thompson_graffiti_1

-Going to trial with a lawyer who considers your whole life-style a Crime in Progress is not a happy prospect.

-In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.

-The TV business is uglier than most things. It is normally perceived as some kind of cruel and shallow money trench through the heart of the journalism industry, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs, for no good reason.

-A man who has blown all his options can’t afford the luxury of changing his ways. He has to capitalize on whatever he has left, and he can’t afford to admit — no matter how often he’s reminded of it — that every day of his life takes him farther and farther down a blind alley… Very few toads in this world are Prince Charmings in disguise. Most are simply toads… and they are going to stay that way… Toads don’t make laws or change any basic structures, but one or two rooty insights can work powerful changes in the way they get through life. A toad who believes he got a raw deal before he even knew who was dealing will usually be sympathetic to the mean, vindictive ignorance that colors the Hell’s Angels’ view of humanity. There is not much mental distance between a feeling of having been screwed and the ethic of total retaliation, or at least the random revenge that comes with outraging the public decency.

-Sometimes at dusk, when you were trying to relax and not think of the general stagnation, the Garbage God would gather a handful of those chocked-off morning hopes and dangle them somewhere just out of reach; they would hang in the breeze and make a sound like delicate glass bells, reminding you of something you never quite got hold of, and never would.

-When the going gets weird , the weird turn pro. But it never got weird enough for me to turn pro.    hunter-thompson-tee-shirt

 

-Anything that gets the adrenalin moving like a 440 volt blast in a copper bathtub is good for the reflexes and keeps the veins free of cholesterol… but too many adrenaline rushes in any given time span has the same effect on the nervous system as too many electro-shock treatments are said to have on the brain: after a while you start burning out the circuits. When a jackrabbit gets addicted to road-running, its only a matter of time before he gets smashed — and when a journalist turns into a politics junkie he will sooner or later start raving and babbling in print about things that only a person who has Been There can possibly understand.

-I sat there for a long time, and thought about a lot of things. Foremost among them was the suspicion that my strange and ungovernable instincts might do me in before I had a chance to get rich. No matter how much I wanted those things that I needed money to buy, there was some devilish current pushing me off in another direction- toward anarchy poverty and craziness. That maddening delusion that a man can lead a decent life without hiring himself out as a Judas goat.

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Suicide  note (?)

* Football season is over. No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt.

All quotes by Hunter S. Thompson (1937-2005) RIP (try at least…)

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Uncensored.

Bukowski.

In 1993, candid conversations between Charles Bukowski, his wife, and his producer took place in Bukowski’s home during the recording session for his classic Run With the Hunted.

We brought the outtakes to life for HarperCollins.

Animation by Drew Christie  &   harperaudioclassics.com

Tarkovsky’s Polaroids‎

With the discovery and digitalisation of a cache of his personal polaroids, we gained access to Tarkovsky’s luminous world…

Polaroid by Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979-84 © Андрей Тарковский/Ultreya, Milano
Polaroid by Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979-84 © Андрей Тарковский/ Ultreya, Milano

      Russian auteur Andrei Tarkovsky is often cited as the greatest cinematic artist of all time. His roster of just seven films – including Andrei Rublev, Ivan’s Children and Solaris – have made him one of the most lauded directors in history, awarded a Golden Lion, the Grand Prix du Jury at Cannes and, posthumously, the Lenin Prize – the highest accolade in the Soviet Union. One of his heroes, Ingmar Bergman, stated, “Tarkovsky for me is the greatest, the one who invented a new language, true to the nature of film, as it captures life as a reflection, life as a dream.”

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Polaroid by Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979-84 © Андрей Тарковский/Ultreya, Milano

 Veneration for Tarkovsky has not dimmed since his premature death in 1986, making the recent discovery of a cache of his polaroids a thrilling find. Taken between 1979 and 1984, in the years before his death from a cancer supposedly contracted on the set of Stalker, they span his last months in the Soviet Union and the years he spent researching and filming in Italy. Very much in the spirit of his moving image work, they capture nature, individuals and light in images that shine with the singular humanity which imbues his films. He once pronounced that “the director’s task is to recreate life, its movement, its contradictions, its dynamic and conflicts. It is his duty to reveal every iota of the truth he has seen…” In these vignettes from his personal world, populated by his dog, his children, his garden and the view from his window, we are left spellbound by a quiet and captivating insight into the world of a man who rendered dreams reality, creating worlds of wonder and truth that have never been equalled despite all the bombast of modern technology.

Text by Tish Wrigley

All Polaroids by Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979-84 © Андрей Тарковский/Ultreya, Milano 

Polaroid by Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979-84 © Андрей Тарковский/Ultreya, Milano

 

05

08

04

31

23

 

59

 

50

 

54

60

 

51

42

40

 24

See the full array of polaroids here.

Emotional Response

sas_logo

Sat-Night-Sun-Morning

Sas Christian was born in London in 1968, the eldest of four. She was a shy introverted child lacking in self confidence with a passion for drawing.

Sas worked in a department store, at a commercial art studio and a PIP printing (where she quit on her first day, before lunch)! It was around this time that she first saw an issue of Juxtapoz with a cover by Mark Ryden – and was struck. The urge to paint was growing, but she lacked the knowledge and confidence to do anything about it. It seemed so complicated. Her very early attempts were very graphic, comic book style. Hard colors. ”

”Jam Sandwich” was the first layered painting she produced, and is the only one of her pieces that she will keep.

National Health
National Health

Her original inspirations relied heavily on anime, Tamara De Lempicka and Mark Ryden. She loved the creative expression of the Harajuku kids in Tokyo. They filled her with such hope and excitement. Originally the intention of her paintings was just about creating a strong image, purely visual. She wanted to impart a modern tongue-in-cheek humor, incorporating her experiences. Contemporary, ballsy, flirty, weepy girls; punk, catholic, no-nonsense, damaged but not broken girls. Funny, intelligent, unusual, independent, odd ball, outsiders. Lovely.

The next logical step for her was to move into oils. With no formal fine art training whatsoever, and no knowledge of art history and even less of art technique it seemed like the most complicated thing in the world — fat over lean? What the hell did that mean? So, in 2003 she bought a book off the Internet “How to Paint with Oils.” she decided to give it a go, and has never looked back. Oils have a whole new set of rules.

As time goes on she finds herself relying less on the narrative and more on the emotive. She hopes that her work can connect with people on different levels. She is trying to harness a single moment in time, an emotional response, seemingly insignificant gesture that can mean so much.

Angel of Vengeance
Angel of Vengeance
Takes a Lickin'
Takes a Lickin’
Sun Stroke
Sun Stroke

 

 

Looking InLooking In

Karma Killer
Karma Killer
Good Morning Sunshine
Good Morning Sunshine
Fast Forward
Fast Forward
Easter Bonnet
Easter Bonnet
Crash
Crash
Colette
Colette
Cold Front
Cold Front
Candyland
Candyland

”If you have a creative impulse, whether it be art, music, writing, theater, cooking, whatever — express it. Don’t let you own hang-ups, caution, fear of failure or ridicule stop you…?”

1972 – FRENCH TV

LOU REED, NICO AND JOHN CALE VELVET UNDERGROUND MINI-REUNION 

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JUST CLICK ON IMAGE FOR FULL FILM VERSION

Posted by Richard Metzger on the PKM website page by Legs’ which is utterly interesting. Pleasekillme.com, make sure you go check on them.

In 1972, Velvet Underground alumni Lou Reed, John Cale and Nico reunited before the cameras of the POP2 TV program at Le Bataclan, a well-known—and very intimate—Paris venue. It was Cale’s gig originally and he invited Reed and Nico to join him. Reed, who hated rehearsing, spent two days with Cale working out what they were going to do. According to Victor Bockris’ Lou Reed biography Transformer, rock critic Richard Robinson videotaped these rehearsals, which took place in London.

Both the videotape and the audio from this show have been heavily bootlegged over the years. A legit CD release happened a few years ago, but it still sounds like a bootleg. A high quality video turned up on various torrent trackers and bootleg blogs after a rebroadcast on French TV. It’s fairly easy to find. Now if only some of the outtakes from the Le Bataclan filming (if there were any) would slip out—they did “Black Angel’s Death Song” which I’d dearly love to see—not to mention what Richard Robinson might have (There is an audio only recording of the rehearsals attributed to Robinson’s tapes already making the rounds on bootleg torrent trackers.)

This is Reed coming off his first solo record (which had not even been released yet) and just a few months before he recorded “Walk on the Wild Side” with David Bowie and took on a totally different public—and we can presume, private—persona. This is “Long Island Lou” last seen just before Reed’s druggy bisexual alter-ego showed up and took his place. Cale does the lush “Ghost Story” from his then new Vintage Violence album and Nico looks stunning and happy here singing “Femme Fatale.” It’s before the damage of her drug addiction took its toll on her looks.

I will direct you here for the full version, but I can’t embed the file.

One thing worth pointing out here is that during “Berlin” you can see Nico’s face as Reed sings a song which he told her was about her. She might even be hearing it for the first time.

Here’s a version (oddly in color, the only one on YouTube, the rest are all B&W) of Reed and Cale performing a languid, stoned and thoroughly unplugged “I’m Waiting For The Man”:

William S. Burroughs, F.F. Coppola – 1993 Short

The Junky’s  Christmas.

Danny, a poor unfortunate junkie who reveals his last remains of selflessness and humanity despite his urgent physical predicament. Directed by Nick Donkin and Melodie McDaniel. William S. Burroughs wrote the story and narrates the film; he also appears in live-action footage at the beginning and end of the film. The story originally appeared in the 1989 collection Interzone and the recording of Burroughs reading the story was also released on the CD Spare Ass Annie and Other Tales. 

 

Visual Narrative

In 1969, a Boy Snuck into John Lennon’s Hotel Room with a Recorder. 

He Met the Walrus

In 1969, a 14-year-old Beatle fanatic named Jerry Levitan, armed with a reel-to-reel tape deck, snuck into John Lennon’s hotel room in Toronto and convinced John to do an interview about peace. 38 years later, Jerry has produced a film about it. Using the original interview recording as the soundtrack, director Josh Raskin has woven a visual narrative which tenderly romances Lennon’s every word in a cascading flood of multipronged animation. Raskin marries the terrifyingly genius pen work of James Braithwaite with masterful digital illustration by Alex Kurina, resulting in a spell-binding vessel for Lennon’s boundless wit, and timeless message. I Met the Walrus was nominated for the 2008 Academy Award for Animated Short and won the 2009 Emmy for ‘New Approaches’ (making it the first film to win an Emmy on behalf of the internet).

 Actors: Jerry Levitan, John Lennon

Director: Josh Raskin

Producer: Jerry Levitan

Scenario: Josh Rankin

Release Date: 2007

MC5 Documentary

Sixties Detroit Rock

mc5
click for full free documentary

DETROIT, Michigan — With all the troublesome legal questions now firmly resolved, the highly regarded “MC5 – A True Testimonial” documentary film is finally poised for release.

Having screened to SRO crowds and widespread critical acclaim at international film festivals around the world, the much lauded MC5 documentary had been poised to make a major splash before it’s derailment in early 2004. The highly anticipated film had a full schedule of nationwide theatrical screenings in place, followed by a DVD release, before the curious decision was made to deny the requisite synchronization license for the MC5’s music publishing.

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That decision, initiated at the behest of Wayne Kramer, one of the two guitarists in the legendary but long-defunct band, ignited a firestorm of controversy. Kramer had long supported the film’s production, having once said “The filmmakers have done a fabulous job of telling the story of the MC5… the story is finally getting told and told right.”

Having successfully blocked the film’s release, the guitarist would later file suit in federal court in November 2005 over a purported “music producer” position and alleging a variety of copyright infringement, fraud and breach of contract claims against director David Thomas, producer Laurel Legler and Future/Now Films.

After hearing extensive testimony and reviewing the evidence presented during a week-long trial held October 2006 in Santa Ana, California, United States District Court Judge Andrew J. Guilford dismissed all charges against the filmmakers, concluding there was “insufficient factual basis to establish any claim” against them.MC5austour

In a decision rendered March 31, 2007, Judge Guilford found “no terms specific enough to form an enforceable contract were ever agreed upon,” that neither Thomas or Legler “had made any actionable false representations” to Kramer, and that the dispute arose only after Future/Now Films “demonstrated that the film they were crafting could be successful” adding “The MC5 is historically significant and its music and story merit being heard today. The film had and still has the potential to spread the music and story of the MC5.”

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The families of the late Rob Tyner and Fred “Sonic” Smith have been fully supportive of the film’s release from the beginning; Patti Smith has been unequivocal, saying “They were a great band and they should be remembered. And they should be remembered together. This film is a very good opportunity to give them recognition.”

With authorizations from the surviving members now in place, Vincent Cox, attorney for Future/Now Films, has declared “the disputes are water under the bridge, and there’s no point in rehashing them.”

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One could argue that, had the film come out as scheduled, it would have boosted the MC5’s profile enough to propel the band into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame; the band’s sole nomination came in 2002 when the “MC5 – A True Testimonial” festival tour was in full swing. Whether or not that time has now passed remains to be seen.

Nonetheless, as USDC Judge Guilford noted in his decision, director David Thomas and producer Laurel Legler were “first-time filmmakers who spent eight years of their lives trying to create a documentary film that would be historically truthful, a documentary that would celebrate the talent and creativity of the MC5 band, a documentary that would say something about the 60’s, and would say something about the present. They succeeded, and the film merits wide distribution for the enjoyment and edification of the masses.”

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In other words… “KICK OUT THE JAMS, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!”

Electric Emotions.

Jimi Hendrix by Moebius 1967

What’s interesting about this short anime clip on Jimi Hendrix done in France by the guy who created the Silver Surfer, the famous artist Jean Giraud a.k.a Moebius, imagining Hendrix in a infinite imaginary world that never cease to glorify an epic vision… A cosmic infinite magical universe. All this in 1967 at a time Hendrix was virtually unkown…This is the birth of a myth only witnessed and rendered by a few wise visionaries who inmmediately sensed the brilliant talent of a rising star guitarist that would soon become a legend…. So here it is for you: ELECTRIC EMOTIONS by Moebius and Jean-Noël Cogne who both had forseen the glory of starry eyed, timeless guitar player JIMI HENDRIX.

ÉDITEUR : CASTOR ASTRAL        ISBN : 9782859203863

AUTEUR : MOEBUS/ COGNE, JEAN-NOËL

Charles Bukowski – Born Into This

Charles Bukowski

Henry Charles Bukowski was an American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles. It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books. In 1986 Time called Bukowski a “laureate of American lowlife”. Regarding Bukowski’s enduring popular appeal, Adam Kirsch of The New Yorker wrote, “the secret of Bukowski’s appeal. . . [is that] he combines the confessional poet’s promise of intimacy with the larger-than-life aplomb of a pulp-fiction hero.”

Early Years

Charles Bukowski was born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski in Andernach, Germany, to Heinrich Bukowski and Katharina (née Fett). Charles’ mother was a native German and his father was an American serviceman. Charles’ paternal grandfather Leonard had emigrated to America from Germany in the 1880s. In Cleveland, Leonard met Emilie Krausse who had emigrated from Danzig, then part of Germany. They married and settled in Pasadena. He worked as a carpenter, setting up his own very successful construction company. The couple had four children, including Henry, Charles Bukowski’s father.

Charles Bukowski’s parents met in Andernach, in Western Germany following World War I, the poet’s father posted as a sergeant in the American army of occupation following Germany’s defeat in 1918. He had an affair with Katherina, the German sister of a friend, and she quickly became pregnant. Charles Bukowski repeatedly claimed to be born out of wedlock, but Andernach marital records indicate that his parents married one month prior to his birth.His father set himself up as a building contractor, set to make great financial gains in the aftermath of the war. After two years that family moved to Pfaffendorf. Given the crippling reparations being required of Germany and high levels of inflation Henry was unable to make a living, and so he decided to move the family back to America. On April 23, 1923 they sailed from Bremerhaven to Baltimore, Maryland, where they settled. Wanting a more Anglophone name, Bukowski’s parents began calling their son ‘Henry’, which the poet would later change to Charles. They altered the pronunciation of the family name from /bu?’k?fski/ boo-kof-skee to /bu?’ka?ski/ boo-kow-ski, Bukowski’s parents were Roman Catholic.

The family settled in South Central Los Angeles in 1930, the city where Charles Bukowski’s father and grandfather had previously worked and lived. In the ’30s the poet’s father was often unemployed. In the autobiographical Ham on Rye Charles Bukowski says that, with his mother’s acquiescence, his father was frequently abusive, both physically and mentally, beating his son for the smallest imagined offence.During his youth Bukowski was shy and socially withdrawn, a condition exacerbated during his teens by an extreme case of acne. Neighborhood children ridiculed his German accent and the clothing his parents made him wear. Although he seemed to suffer from Dyslexia, he was highly praised at school for his art work.

In his early teens, Henry had an epiphany when he was introduced to alcohol by his loyal friend William “Baldy” Mullinax, depicted as “Eli Lacross” in Ham on Rye, son of an alcoholic surgeon. “This [alcohol] is going to help me for a very long time”, he later wrote, describing the genesis of his chronic alcoholism; or, as he saw it, the genesis of a method he could utilize to come to more amicable terms with his own life. After graduating from Los Angeles High School, Bukowski attended Los Angeles City College for two years, taking courses in art, journalism, and literature, before quitting at the start of World War II. He then moved to New York to begin a career as a writer.

On July 22, 1944, with World War II ongoing, Bukowski was arrested by FBI agents in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where he was living at the time, on suspicion of draft evasion. He was held for 17 days in Philadelphia’s Moyamensing Prison. Sixteen days later he failed a psychological exam that was part of his mandatory military entrance “physical” and was given a Selective Service Classification of 4-F (unfit for military service).

Early Writing

When Bukowski was 24, his short story, “Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip”, was published in Story magazine. Two years later, another short story, “20 Tanks from Kasseldown”, was published by the Black Sun Press in Issue III of Portfolio: An Intercontinental Quarterly, a limited-run, loose-leaf broadside collection printed in 1946 and edited by Caresse Crosby. Failing to break into the literary world, Bukowski grew disillusioned with the publication process and quit writing for almost a decade, a time that he referred to as a “ten-year drunk.” These “lost years” formed the basis for his later semi-autobiographical chronicles, although they are fictionalized versions of Bukowski’s life through his highly stylized alter-ego, Henry Chinaski.

During part of this period he continued living in Los Angeles, working at a pickle factory for a short time but also spending some time roaming about the United States, working sporadically and staying in cheap rooming houses. In the early 1950s, Bukowski took a job as a fill-in letter carrier with the U.S. Postal Service in Los Angeles but resigned just before he reached three years’ service.

In 1955 he was treated for a near-fatal bleeding ulcer. After leaving the hospital he began to write poetry. In 1957 he agreed to marry small-town Texas poet Barbara Frye, sight unseen, but they divorced in 1959. According to Howard Sounes’s Charles Bukowski: Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life, she later died under mysterious circumstances in India. Following his divorce, Bukowski resumed drinking and continued writing poetry.

1960s

By 1960, Bukowski had returned to the post office in Los Angeles where he began work as a letter filing clerk, a position he held for more than a decade. In 1962, he was traumatized by the death of Jane Cooney Baker, the object of his first serious romantic attachment. Bukowski turned his inner devastation into a series of poems and stories lamenting her death. Jane is considered to be the greatest love of his life and was the most important in a long series of muses who inspired his writing, according to biographer Jory Sherman. In 1964 a daughter, Marina Louise Bukowski, was born to Bukowski and his live-in girlfriend Frances Smith, whom he referred to as a “white-haired hippie,” “shack-job,” and “old snaggle-tooth.”.

Jon and Louise Webb, now recognized as giants of the post-war ‘small-press movement’, published The Outsider literary magazine and featured some of Bukowski’s poetry. Under the Loujon Press imprint, they published Bukowski’s It Catches My Heart in Its Hands in 1963 and Crucifix in a Deathhand in 1965.

Beginning in 1967, Bukowski wrote the column “Notes of a Dirty Old Man” for Los Angeles’ Open City, an underground newspaper. When Open City was shut down in 1969, the column was picked up by the Los Angeles Free Press as well as the hippie underground paper NOLA Express in New Orleans. In 1969 Bukowski and Neeli Cherkovski launched their own short-lived mimeographed literary magazine, Laugh Literary and Man the Humping Guns. They produced three issues over the next two years.

Black Sparrow Years

In 1969 Bukowski accepted an offer from Black Sparrow Press publisher John Martin and quit his post office job to dedicate himself to full-time writing. He was then 49 years old. As he explained in a letter at the time, “I have one of two choices – stay in the post office and go crazy … or stay out here and play at writer and starve. I have decided to starve.” Less than one month after leaving the postal service he finished his first novel, Post Office. As a measure of respect for Martin’s financial support and faith in a relatively unknown writer, Bukowski published almost all of his subsequent major works with Black Sparrow Press. An avid supporter of small independent presses, he continued to submit poems and short stories to innumerable small publications throughout his career.

Bukowski embarked on a series of love affairs and one-night trysts. One of these relationships was with Linda King, a poet and sculptress. Critic Robert Peters viewed the debut of Linda King’s play The Tenant in which she and Bukowski starred back in the 1970s in Los Angeles. This play was a one-off performance. His other affairs were with a recording executive and a 23-year-old redhead; he wrote a book of poetry as a tribute of his love for the latter, titled, “Scarlet” (Black Sparrow Press, 1976). His various affairs and relationships provided material for his stories and poems. Another important relationship was with “Tanya”, pseudonym of “Amber O’Neil” (also a pseudonym), described in Bukowski’s “Women” as a pen-pal that evolved into a weekend tryst at Bukowski’s residence in Los Angeles in the 1970s. “Amber O’Neil” later self-published a chapbook about the affair entitled “Blowing My Hero.”

In 1976, Bukowski met Linda Lee Beighle, a health food restaurant owner, aspiring actress and devotee of Meher Baba, leader of an Indian religious society. Two years later Bukowski moved from the East Hollywood area, where he had lived for most of his life, to the harborside community of San Pedro, the southernmost district of the City of Los Angeles. Beighle followed him and they lived together intermittently over the next two years. They were eventually married by Manly Palmer Hall, a Canadian-born author and mystic, in 1985. Beighle is referred to as “Sara” in Bukowski’s novels Women and Hollywood.

Death

Bukowski died of leukemia on March 9, 1994, in San Pedro, California, aged 73, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp. The funeral rites, orchestrated by his widow, were conducted by Buddhist monks. An account of the proceedings can be found in Gerald Locklin’s book Charles Bukowski: A Sure Bet. His gravestone reads: “Don’t Try”, a phrase which Bukowski uses in one of his poems, advising aspiring writers and poets about inspiration and creativity. Bukowski explained the phrase in a 1963 letter to John William Corrington: “Somebody at one of these places […] asked me: ‘What do you do? How do you write, create?’ You don’t, I told them. You don’t try. That’s very important: ‘not’ to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

In 2007 and 2008 there was a movement to save Bukowski’s bungalow at 5124 De Longpre Ave. from destruction. The campaign was spearheaded by preservationist Lauren Everett. The cause was covered extensively in the local and international press, including a feature in David S. Wills’s Beatdom magazine, and was ultimately successful. The bungalow subsequently was listed as a Los Angeles Historic-Cultural Monument called Bukowski Court. The cause was criticized by some as cheapening Bukowski’s “outsider” reputation.

Work

Bukowski published extensively in small literary magazines and with small presses beginning in the early 1940s and continuing on through the early 1990s. These poems and stories were later republished by Black Sparrow Press (now HarperCollins/ECCO) as collected volumes of his work. In the 1980s he collaborated with illustrator Robert Crumb on a series of comic books, with Bukowski supplying the writing and Crumb providing the artwork.

Bukowski also performed live readings of his works, beginning in 1962 on radio station KPFK in Los Angeles and increasing in frequency through the 1970s. Drinking was often a featured part of the readings, along with a combative banter with the audience. By the late 1970s Bukowski’s income was sufficient to give up live readings. His last international performance was in October 1979 in Vancouver, British Columbia. It was released on DVD as There’s Gonna Be a God Damn Riot in Here. In March 1980 he gave his very last reading at the Sweetwater club in Redondo Beach, which was released as Hostage on audio CD and The Last Straw on DVD.

Bukowski often spoke of Los Angeles as his favorite subject. In a 1974 interview he said, “You live in a town all your life, and you get to know every bitch on the street corner and half of them you have already messed around with. You’ve got the layout of the whole land. You have a picture of where you are…. Since I was raised in L.A., I’ve always had the geographical and spiritual feeling of being here. I’ve had time to learn this city. I can’t see any other place than L.A.”

One critic has described Bukowski’s fiction as a “detailed depiction of a certain taboo male fantasy: the uninhibited bachelor, slobby, anti-social, and utterly free”, an image he tried to live up to with sometimes riotous public poetry readings and boorish party behaviour. Since his death in 1994 Bukowski has been the subject of a number of critical articles and books about both his life and writings. His work has received relatively little attention from academic critics. ECCO continues to release new collections of his poetry, culled from the thousands of works published in small literary magazines. According to ECCO, the 2007 release The People Look Like Flowers At Last will be his final posthumous release as now all his once-unpublished work has been published.

In June 2006 Bukowski’s literary archive was donated by his widow to the Huntington Library in San Marino, California. Copies of all editions of his work published by the Black Sparrow Press are held at Western Michigan University which purchased the archive of the publishing house after its closure in 2003.

Film Depictions

Bukowski: Born Into This, a film documenting the author’s life, was released in 2003. It features contributions from Sean Penn, Tom Waits, Harry Dean Stanton and Bono (U2’s song “Dirty Day” was dedicated to Bukowski when released in 1993).

In 1981, the Italian director Marco Ferreri made a film, Storie di ordinaria follia aka Tales of Ordinary Madness, loosely based on the short stories of Bukowski; Ben Gazzara played the role of Bukowski’s character.

Barfly, released in 1987, is a semi-autobiographical film written by Bukowski and starring Mickey Rourke as Henry Chinaski, who represents Bukowski, and Faye Dunaway as his lover Wanda Wilcox. Sean Penn had offered to play the part of Chinaski for as little as a dollar as long as his friend Dennis Hopper would provide direction, but the European director Barbet Schroeder had invested many years and thousands of dollars in the project and Bukowski felt Schroeder deserved to make it. Bukowski wrote the screenplay for the film and appears as a bar patron in a brief cameo.

Also in 1987 a small Belgian film called Crazy Love came out, with script co-written by Bukowski himself. The film was loosely based upon 3 frequently-told episodes from his life.

A film adaptation of Factotum, starring Matt Dillon, Lili Taylor, and Marisa Tomei, was released in 2005.
In 2011, the actor James Franco publicly stated that he is in the process of making a film adaptation of Bukowski’s novel Ham on Rye. He is currently writing the script with his brother David Franco and explained that his reason for wanting to make the film is because “Ham on Rye is one of my favorite books of all time.”

Charles Bukowski’s Works:

Novels

Post Office (1971)
Factotum (1975)
Women (1978)
Ham on Rye (1982)
Hollywood (1989)
Pulp (1994)

Poetry collections

Flower, Fist, and Bestial Wail (1960)
Poems and Drawings (1962)
Longshot Poems for Broke Players (1962)
Run with the Hunted (1962)
It Catches My Heart in Its Hands (1963)
Crucifix in a Deathhand (1965)
Cold Dogs in the Courtyard (1965)
The Genius of the Crowd (1966)
2 by Bukowski (1967)
The Curtains Are Waving (1967)
At Terror Street and Agony Way (1968)
Poems Written Before Jumping Out of an 8 story Window (1968)
A Bukowski Sampler (1969)
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)
Fire Station (1970)
Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (1972)
Me and Your Sometimes Love Poems (1972)
While the Music Played (1973)
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame (1974)
Africa, Paris, Greece (1975)
Scarlet (1976)
Maybe Tomorrow (1977)
Legs, Hips and Behind (1978)
Love Is a Dog from Hell (1977)
Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit (1979)
Dangling in the Tournefortia (1982)
War All the Time (book)|War All the Time (1984)
Horses Don’t Bet on People & Neither Do I (1984)
You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)
The Roominghouse Madrigals (1988)
Beauti-ful & Other Long Poems (1988)
Septuagenarian Stew: Stories & Poems (1990)
People Poems (1991)
The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992)
Betting on the Muse: Poems and Stories (1996)
Bone Palace Ballet (book)|Bone Palace Ballet (1998)
What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire. (1999)
All Night (2000)
The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps (2001)
Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way (2003)
As Buddha smiles (2003)
The Flash of the Lightning Behind the Mountain (2004)
Slouching Toward Nirvana (2005)
Come on In! (2006)
The People Look Like Flowers at Last (2007)
The Pleasures of the Damned (2007)
The Continual Condition (2009)

Short story chapbooks and collections

Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live with Beasts (1965)
All the Assholes in the World and Mine (1966)
Notes of a Dirty Old Man (1969)
Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, and General Tales of Ordinary Madness (1972)
South of No North (1973)
Hot Water Music (1983)
Tales of Ordinary Madness (1983)
The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (1983)
Portions from a Wine-stained Notebook: Short Stories and Essays (2008) Absence of the Hero (2010)
More Notes of a Dirty Old Man (2011)

Nonfiction books

Shakespeare Never Did This (1979); expanded (1995)
The Bukowski/Purdy Letters (1983)
Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters (1993)
Living on Luck: Selected Letters, vol. 2 (1995)
The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship (1998)
Reach for the Sun: Selected Letters, vol. 3 (1999)
Beerspit Night and Cursing: The Correspondense of Charles Bukowski and Sheri Martinelli (2001)

Screenplays

Barfly (1984)

Films

Bukowski at Bellevue 1970 – Poetry Reading
Supervan 1977 – Feature Film (Not based on Bukowski’s work but Bukowski had cameo appearance as Wet T-Shirt Contest Water Boy)
There’s Gonna Be a God Damn Riot in Here – Filmed: 1979; DVD Release: 2008 – Poetry Reading
The Last Straw – Filmed: 1980; DVD Release: 2008 – Poetry Reading
Tales of Ordinary Madness – Feature Film
Poetry In Motion 1982 – General Poetry Documentary (Bukowski is a featured interviewee/talking head)
Barfly 1987 – Feature Film
Crazy Love 1987 – Feature Film (Belgium)
Bukowski: Born Into This 2002 – Biographical Documentary
Factotum 2005 – Feature Film
The Suicide 2006 – Short film
One Tough Mother 2010 Released on DVD – Poetry Reading

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