I was in Los Angeles in June (2013), so of course, I ignored
all the Stars Tours, the LaBrea Tar Pits, and the Whiskey-a-Go-Go, preferring
to visit Charles Bukowski. Well, his grave, that is. I can’t say I’m a big fan
of his writing, I’m more a fan of his style - which was in the
stream-of-consciousness vein, a la Hunter Thompson. I like to do that myself. Bukowski
often said “
Don’t try,” and some would think he meant just let the words flow,
don’t try to make sense of them. His wife, Linda, says it means don’t just
try,
but rather,
DO.
“Dirty journalism” is
the phrase some people use to describe Bukowski’s writing. Some of it borders
on pornography (let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be reading his novel
Women
on an airplane and have your neighbor glance down at the words). Calling it
misogynistic and crude is to put his prose mildly. According to
Poeticus.com, Bukowski’s writing 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.”
His poetry, however, is quite beautiful. Here are the
opening lines from bang bang, a poem from his book Mockingbird Wish Me Luck:
"Absolutely
seasamoid
said the
skeleton
shoving his
chalky foot
upon my
desk;
and that was
it
bang bang
he looked at
me,
and it was
my bone body
and I was
what remained …"
So what did I expect to find at his grave site? Whatever it
was that I was going to find, I suppose. Perhaps liquor bottles and cigarette
butts, as I’d read in a few places (Bukowski was a heavy smoker and an alcoholic).
In looking it up on the web ahead of time, I saw one reference to “Charles
Bukowski’s mausoleum,” in Green Hills Memorial Park, but that turned out to be misinformation.
He is buried in Green Hills, however, but not in a mausoleum. The
memorial park (one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen) is in Palos Los
Verdes, a suburb of Los Angeles to the south. (Bukowski lived nearby during the
last few years of his life, with most of his life spent in L.A.) Being a memorial
park, I really didn’t expect to see much of anything, except for acres of
flush-to-the-ground grave markers. Such places seldom have statues and are not of
the Victorian era, so they’ve never held much interest for me. Green Hills,
though, was a bit different.
Driving through the expensive-looking driveway past the
flower store to the guard’s booth, it was obvious that this place caters to
the well-to-do (which I don’t believe “Hank” was, so I’m not sure why he’s
here). Perfectly manicured lawns and rolling hills with gazebos, statues, and
other memorials set Green Hills apart from any memorial park I’d ever seen. It
was truly serene and respectful, with all the ambiance of a traditional cemetery.
The memorial park, a relatively modern development in cemetery design (the
first being California’s Forest Lawn in 1912), is usually a flat field that allows
the grass to be cut with great ease – totally blasé. The sheer quantity of
giant shade trees in Green Hills would seem to impose the traditional challenges in
cemetery lawn care.
 |
| Lucky clover growing on pine cone near Bukowski's grave |
Bukowski’s granite grave marker is just like the thousands of others
at Green Hills: rectangular, flat, and flush-to-the-ground. So how did I find
it? You can get some general directions off the Internet (“Oceanview” section),
but not for the specific location of his grave. I asked the guard at the
entrance booth. Actually there were two gentlemen, both of whom were very
helpful. Still, I had difficulty finding it amongst a hundred or so graves in
“Oceanview.” The name, by the way, is kind of a misnomer - although his grave
on the hillside does indeed face the Pacific Ocean, there is a mountain range
in the way. The ocean is a couple miles from here. You can’t actually see it.
Wandering around the section photographing the grave markers
here and there, I was struck by the individuality in the designs. I’ve never
seen that anywhere else. Most of the plates were metal, and were embossed with
waterfalls, trees, and other bucolic scenes. Some even had short epitaphs.
Finally, a grounds keeper came up the road in a little cart and I flagged him
down. He knew Bukowski’s marker was around here somewhere, and we walked around
a bit without finding it. Then, another worker came up the road in a pickup
truck. The first groundskeeper flagged him down and asked if he know where
Bukowsi’s marker was. The fellow in the pickup replied, “
The writer?”
Which reminds me of a blonde joke. But this really happened:
I was at work about ten years ago when two saleswomen came
in to the department. One of my coworkers sat at a workbench just outside my
office. I heard people talking so I went out to see who they were. One woman
was blonde, the other brunette. The brunette pointed to my coworker and said to
the blonde, “Doesn’t he remind you of Ernest Hemingway?” The blonde said, “The
writer?” There’s a reason stereotypes exist.
 |
| Green Hills worker helping me find Bukowski's grave |
Anyway, the first groundskeeper kept up the search ("Don't Try" -
do!) and
eventually found Bukowski’s grave marker for me. “Hank’s’” grave was devoid of
whiskey bottles and beer cans, so I assume such litter is not a regular
occurrence, otherwise the groundskeepers would’ve known exactly where the grave
was. I did pick up a pine cone, however, from beneath a nearby tree. (The
name “Hank” on the grave marker is short for Henry Charles "Hank"
Chinaski, Bukowski’s literary alter ego, a character who appeared many time in
Bukowski’s books). The 1987 movie,
Barfly, was actually based on Chinaski's fictitious life and times.
In 1986, Time magazine called Bukowski the "
laureate of American lowlife."
After visiting his grave, I celebrated this by stopping for beer and ribs under
a tent in a nearby Pep Boys parking lot. As I was eating dinner out of a
Styrofoam container in my rental car I started thinking bizarre thoughts. You
cannot help but think them when you’re contemplating Bukowski – dive bars in
L.A., alcoholism, mortality and death - all in the warm California sun.
 |
| Moyamensing Prison, Philadelphia (ref) |
Here’s what I
thought of: writing about the connections I have to famous people, no matter
how many times removed. Charles Bukowski spent seventeen days in Philadelphia’s
Moyamensing Prison in 1944 on suspicion of draft evasion. My connection? I live
on Moyamensing Avenue, a few blocks from where the prison once stood here in
South Philadelphia (it was torn down in 1968). There’s an ACME supermarket
there now, and I shop in it. Another, somewhat more famous writer, Edgar Allen Poe, also spent
some time here (the prison, not the ACME) for public drunkenness in 1849.
Reference and Further Reading:
Charles Bukowski bio on
Poeticous.com
Barfly, the 1987 movie based on Bukowski's literary alter ego, Henry Chinaski
