When I was a young man I enjoyed the anarchic, transgressive nature of Charles Bukowski’s work.
His “I’m going to drink as much as I want, fuck whomever I please and make the art I want to make” attitude was appealing to a younger version of myself but I recently re-read some his work and was taken with how gently Bukowski approaches ageing.
In his 1973 poem “The Fisherman” a 75 year old man repeats his daily routine which is meticulous, meditative, maybe even transcendent, but at at the end of every day his wife erases his work.
We are not told of what compromises the wife and husband have made to come to this arrangement, what resentments they carry or if they hold any resentments at all.
All we know is that this is the life they have chosen for better or worse, richer or poorer, ‘til death do they part.
Read more about Charles Bukowski: HERE
Shane Attwooll credits: HERE