BEATNIK BASHED ON THE INNER EAR ROCKS

Facebook tells me on an irritatingly regular basis that readers of this blog are craving to hear from me. The memoir is coming along very slowly, nearly not at all. I have far too many dizzy days, and when those days are upon me, not a creative spark appears in my synaptic self, and he's the self who writes for me and which my conscious self recognizes after the fact. As no doubt you all know by now, if you keep up with evolutionary biology, the conscious self exists as about five or six constantly changing pieces of data which is all the human animal can retain in its consciousness at any one time. Consciousness is a flickering moment to moment existence at best, and when one is dizzy on a regular basis, consciousness becomes an even more fractured phenomenon.

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Why am I dizzy and what can be done about it? Decades ago, I consulted an eye ear nose guy, and he said the little hairs in my inner ear, awash in and reacting to the fluid sloshing around in there are getting flattened and worn down with age and inactivity. He said it would only get worse. He was right. 

I continue to send out pieces of writing and get regular rejections. I fear my work is out of date. I truly like my 8 line poetry, specially the simplest clearest expression of my thinking, but clarity is not in fashion. And that's okay. 

PRIVILEGED WHITE MALE..... NOT SO MUCH.

Still writing the memoir tentatively called Privileged White Male. The title is to be understood as somewhat but not entirely ironical. I fully understand women's complaints, but, I've not been entirely successful when compared to the self confident and/or Type-A males in the workforce. The memoir clearly reveals this. Thus, I identify with women more than they might like. And women do quite well in the writing community these days, whereas I'm not doing as well as I believe I deserve to be doing. More women than men buy books.

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Lately, I've sent off some eight line poems (roughly comparable to Chinese lushi) that are quite good. I believe in them. And one editor actually complimented the "spirit" of them, but rejected them for not being the sort of metaphor he desires, though not in those words. My lushi express an atheistic existential point of view, but I think many editors these days can't see through the plain surface of my lushi to what lies beneath them. They expect, and many demand, some sort of metaphoric and jumbled word play. In fact, if a poem says something clearly on the surface, they would rather it be a puzzle that must be puzzled over. Seriously.

In conclusion, one outcome I can depend on is that on an irregular and frustrating basis, crap will appear in my diaper.

BEATNIK BEATS ON AFTER NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

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Watching the Super Bowl half-heartedly. Fell into a creative funk for a couple of weeks after DAW rejected Ghoul World, and my poetry manuscript about prostate cancer experience also fell short in two prestigious contests. Of course, those contests were filled with many excellent manuscripts by well known poets. I shouldn't feel so bad, but I thought my writing days were done. Nothing was issuing from my inner sanctum except the sound of silence, but this week, a couple of poems were handed out through the sanctum doors into my conscious brain, and I began to write a memoir for the umpteenth time. I've got some interesting psychological thoughts and insights to share, but I have to deal with the old grouch synaptic self that undermines me at every turn. "What makes you think you've got anything worthwhile to say?" I sent Ghoul World limping out again. Hell, it's only been rejected about 20 times. What's that in the scheme of things? Nothing. And two eight line poems slipped into view from the synaptic self. I really love the eight line form and Hanshan's temperament that I fell in love with. Somewhere in my unconscious self, there exists a hermit in the Chinese mountains.