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.

FIND PHOTOGRAPHER

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.

WRITING UNDER THE CYBERKNIFE

Today in a couple of hours, I get my first treatment with the Cyberknife. Exercised early today at Firstenberg Center and have tried for several hours to get some writing done on poetry collection Up Your Ass and later on my novel about dysfunctional relationships The Porn Writer. I see that I'm unable to concentrate very well so I'll just go home and get a shower and take it easy until I have to set off for PeaceHealth Hospital in Vancouver. I'm told I will have to lie perfectly motionless for half an hour while the procedure is completed, but, even if I do move, the roboticized arm stops and recalculates the position of my prostate in order to continue to treat the cancer with high doses of radiation. I recall when we Americans were all in a tizzy about Strontium 90 drifting into America from Chinese atom bomb testing. Now, I'm hoping that radiation will kill the cancer cells that threaten to kill me. Nothing ever changes except change.

BEATNIK SILENT(LY) FALTERS IN HIS SELF-DESIGNED HALTER

Maya Angelou

Woke this morning and my first thought was about Pat Sajak & China/India. The game show expert, in a recent denial of the idea of global warming, called those who support the idea that global warming must be halted, "Racists." A friend of mine, yesterday, wondered, "WHAT?" This morning, before I even arose from my bed to see what was the matter, I understood, the WHAT. If we don't allow India and China to develop their industrial might, millions will be doomed to poverty. Add millions in Africa too. They are peoples whose skin isn't tinted pink. Got it, friend? Those who use global warming as a reason to stop industrial development would, as a byproduct, become racists. Poor scientists. They come up with the facts and politics blindsides them with handfuls of shit. 

Sunshining Day

Then I get out of bed to find that Maya Angelou at 86 has died. Overwhelmed at 76, sitting with a paper before my eyes that blinds me to the sun-shining day outside my picture window, I feel old and tired but, mostly, sad. As I read Maya's lifetime of accomplishments, my petty goal to get someone other than myself to publish one book of mine before I die feels futile, impossible and, mostly, inept. A desire to abandon all thought, quit writing and sit in the sun, merely enjoying my continued existence, is overwhelming ... almost.