First thing this morning, in preparation for regular office visit next week, I hiked six miles round trip in chill mid-60s temps to the doctor's office for a blood draw. As usual, the phlebotomist had a hell of a time finding my tiny, deep veins. The phlebotomist looked for hidden veins of romanticism in the poet's bloody work. Two phlebotomists consulted and, after unsuccessful probing elsewhere, settled for taking the sample from the back of my right hand. Currently at Black Rock Coffee Bar where I rewrote Chapter Eighteen of Angie's Choice in less than two hours. I'm extremely encouraged. Puts me far ahead of the chapter-a-week schedule I set two weeks back. I'm completely recovered from last month's physical and psychological malaise. I do like the sound of that word, just as I enjoy hearing the word bureau in French, and the English pronunciation of schedule. Last night I attended open mic at the Tiger Lily Restaurant in Vancouver to hear Michael G. proclaim his work. You haven't lived until you've experienced Mike G. declaiming a poem. The spit flies, the tears flow. You find yourself carried along. Sometimes, he sings.
Truth is, I actually found a tiny room inside day three of The Days of Dayquil and Runny Noses into which I squeezed my consciousness and a computer keyboard and did accomplish a bit of rewrite on Angie's Choice. That literary feat occurred when I slipped out of the clutches of Dayquil long enough to realize that the medication I was taking to kill off the cold symptoms was doing more to alter consciousness than the cold symptoms themselves. Despite cold symptoms, advancing age and the dark force of Dayquil itself, I'm part way into the rewrite of Chapter Eleven of Angie's Choice. Hurrah for the Silent Beat Boomer wherever he's disappeared to!
To recap the last couple of busy months: beside the steady rewriting of Angie's Choice, I've had a couple of poems accepted into literary magazines, and I've entered two contests (one poetry and one short fiction) about which I'm awaiting results. I'm also anticipating responses from two query letters to very intelligent and discerning literary agents. How can I lose? It's been a busy period, not counting that I finished my autographed copy of Richard Dawkin's The Greatest Show On Earth and a couple of chapbooks of poetry by Michael G. of Portland, some poetry by Gary Snyder and All Our Brownskinned Angels by Raul Sanchez. I intend to reread The Great Gatsby. Mertie and I watched the non-3D version of that new film last week. F. Scott was for the longest time my favorite writer, back when the world was young, full of champagne and I was too.
