Whisky on a Bluebird

Okay - so I am telling you one of my passwords. Bukowski.

I told my friend about it, too. She didn't approve. You are using that drunk poet as a password? But he was a chauvinist! A womanizer! He doesn't deserve password status. Period.

I tried the Anne Frank defense: "In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart."

I also suggested an alternative: "Okay - fine. 'Bluebird' may work? Or is 'Bluebird' guilty by association to an inebriated poet?"

Are Bluebird and Bukowski one and the same?

Let me know what you think, as I have password guilt.

///

BLUEBIRD
By: 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.
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.

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?
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.
then I put him back,
but he's 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?

Got one under my belt

I must reveal that I am quite relieved to have published my first posting. When I decided to join this blog, I was both excited and terrified. My sweet husband said, "Write what you know." Such wise and simple words. And thus began my existential crisis.

Well, what do I know? And do I even know much about what I know? Suddenly, everything I know seems trite and petty. I know about growing up in the San Fernando Valley. Yawn. I know about being a child actress. I may as well join a blog on E! and start waiting tables.

And then my old journalism professors' voices spoke to me. "Always ask yourself, so what and who cares?" Uh, nothing and no one. Jesus Christ.

I should also reveal that this is not my first blog. Oh no. In 2005, I started a blog called The Critical Thinker. I entered one, yes one, entry. I turned on myself and started critically thinking about my critical thinking and it just wasn't meeting my expectations.

I recently checked the URL and it has been taken over by a college professor. Makes much more sense.

When I decided to join this blog, I came up with a few ideas that I quickly shot down. One was to get to the bottom of why razor blades and printer ink are so outrageously expensive. (I may get to that one day, but don't think it is worthy "first post" material.) I also thought of exploring why so many trees in the Fall smell like semen. But I think the title of that posting would scare people away. And then I remembered Eleanor Roosevelt's words that Maria Shriver quoted when she endorsed Obama: "Do one thing every day that scares you." Ooooh. That could be my ongoing theme. So today, maybe I won't use a paper towel to turn the doorknob when I exit the bathroom. Scary! In many ways.

You know when you write in your journal and you start editing yourself as though people are going to read it? That's what blogging is like, except people are going to read it.

What I am really asking is for myself to be kind to myself. That is when good writing emerges. Great. So THAT'S when good writing emerges. No pressure, Meg. Be f*%&ing kind to yourself.

(Oh, and thank you Sarah Palin for providing so much rich material and for making it a little bit easier to write my first posting.)