Hi, I'm Sarah.

NOW LOOK AT ALL THE THINGS THAT AMUSE ME.

Copywriter at The Moon Machine
Contributing Editor at Matador Network
Ambassador of Emoticons & Assigner of Projects at LKR

@itsmesarahp | instagram | robot shop

When I see views like these, I feel like a 13-year-old boy who just saw some blurry boobs on a basement TV with the tuner a half-click away from HBO, and all I can manage in between waves of awe, surprise, and pure wonder is a dull-sounding “whoa” followed by like 4 or 5 slow blinks.

The epic adventures of Emerson the pit bull. (He walks a little, then collapses in the shade a little.)

This hike was so pretty that when we came home, I Google Earthed everything and did it all over again while sitting on my bed eating a banana.
This is Box Lake, and some friends and I enjoying the view.

This hike was so pretty that when we came home, I Google Earthed everything and did it all over again while sitting on my bed eating a banana.

This is Box Lake, and some friends and I enjoying the view.

Always love a good adventure near home.

Emerson dipped his toes in the creek and very slowly, very reluctantly started to wade out toward the other side. After a minute or two standing in water up to his elbows, he finally realized I wasn’t crossing the creek, came back to shore, and flopped down on top of some pretty little flowers.

Headed a few miles up the Little Lakes Valley Trail after devouring a big ol’ slice of some breakfast pie. 
Probably due to it representing everything there is to love about living in the Eastern Sierra, we passed unusually large numbers of dogs, hikers, and a group of kids who called themselves the “Scenery Appreciation Committee” and encouraged us to turn around and look at the view. This totally would have been awesome had they not then said “MADE YOU LOOK” and walked away laughing.

Headed a few miles up the Little Lakes Valley Trail after devouring a big ol’ slice of some breakfast pie. 

Probably due to it representing everything there is to love about living in the Eastern Sierra, we passed unusually large numbers of dogs, hikers, and a group of kids who called themselves the “Scenery Appreciation Committee” and encouraged us to turn around and look at the view. This totally would have been awesome had they not then said “MADE YOU LOOK” and walked away laughing.

Sitting on a tailgate with some dogs, some friends, and a big piece of mud pie at 10:30am sounds like heaven to me.
Fuel for the hike ahead.

Sitting on a tailgate with some dogs, some friends, and a big piece of mud pie at 10:30am sounds like heaven to me.

Fuel for the hike ahead.

August 12, 1986

Hello John:

Thanks for the good letter. I don’t think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from. You know the places where I came from. Even the people who try to write about that or make films about it, they don’t get it right. They call it “9 to 5.” It’s never 9 to 5, there’s no free lunch break at those places, in fact, at many of them in order to keep your job you don’t take lunch. Then there’s overtime and the books never seem to get the overtime right and if you complain about that, there’s another sucker to take your place.

You know my old saying, “Slavery was never abolished, it was only extended to include all the colors.”

And what hurts is the steadily diminishing humanity of those fighting to hold jobs they don’t want but fear the alternative worse. People simply empty out. They are bodies with fearful and obedient minds. The color leaves the eye. The voice becomes ugly. And the body. The hair. The fingernails. The shoes. Everything does.

As a young man I could not believe that people could give their lives over to those conditions. As an old man, I still can’t believe it. What do they do it for? Sex? TV? An automobile on monthly payments? Or children? Children who are just going to do the same things that they did?

Early on, when I was quite young and going from job to job I was foolish enough to sometimes speak to my fellow workers: “Hey, the boss can come in here at any moment and lay all of us off, just like that, don’t you realize that?”

They would just look at me. I was posing something that they didn’t want to enter their minds.

Now in industry, there are vast layoffs (steel mills dead, technical changes in other factors of the work place). They are layed off by the hundreds of thousands and their faces are stunned:

“I put in 35 years…”

“It ain’t right…”

“I don’t know what to do…”

They never pay the slaves enough so they can get free, just enough so they can stay alive and come back to work. I could see all this. Why couldn’t they? I figured the park bench was just as good or being a barfly was just as good. Why not get there first before they put me there? Why wait?

I just wrote in disgust against it all, it was a relief to get the shit out of my system. And now that I’m here, a so-called professional writer, after giving the first 50 years away, I’ve found out that there are other disgusts beyond the system.

I remember once, working as a packer in this lighting fixture company, one of the packers suddenly said: “I’ll never be free!”

One of the bosses was walking by (his name was Morrie) and he let out this delicious cackle of a laugh, enjoying the fact that this fellow was trapped for life.

So, the luck I finally had in getting out of those places, no matter how long it took, has given me a kind of joy, the jolly joy of the miracle. I now write from an old mind and an old body, long beyond the time when most men would ever think of continuing such a thing, but since I started so late I owe it to myself to continue, and when the words begin to falter and I must be helped up stairways and I can no longer tell a bluebird from a paperclip, I still feel that something in me is going to remember (no matter how far I’m gone) how I’ve come through the murder and the mess and the moil, to at least a generous way to die.

To not to have entirely wasted one’s life seems to be a worthy accomplishment, if only for myself.

yr boy,

Hank

Bukowski’s Letter of Gratitude to the Man Who Helped Him Quit His Soul-Sucking Job and Become a Full-Time Writer