A BOOMER'S VIDEO CONTAINS A LITTLE WHITE LIE

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.

THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF THE POET

Making progress on rewrite of Angie's Choice. Deep into chapter nine after hangups in eighth. Entering a poem in a Gallery 360 art and poetry collaboration. Ten bucks entry fee, and if you're selected, you hang your poem upon the wall and offer it for sale among the fine arts.

Raul Sanchez and volunteer musicians

Was so inspired by the integrity and guts displayed at last night's Ghost Town open mic at Cover To Cover Books that I almost want to stop this novel rewrite and return immediately  to poetry. Raul Sanchez was the featured poet and his poems about his father and grandmother stimulated my imagination toward writing about my family relations which, however, would not be poetry of unconditional love as his were, but poems of confusion, ambiguity and ambivalence. As usual, perversity would be my muse, accompanied by self flagellation. 

Last night was one of the best open mic experiences I ever enjoyed. I also recall a Sunday night at Mootsy's in Spokane when my two sons were there, and I donned a ski mask and let rip a lengthy, hate-filled diatribe I call a poem. About that poem: I ripped off the final lines of Coleridge's "Kubla Khan". You know...the finale that begins, "Weave a circle 'round him thrice and close your eyes with holy dread?" My thievery so bothered me that I finally rewrote the ending not too long ago. 

Don't know how many times I've dashed back and forth between poetry and fiction. I have two writing degrees—poetry and fiction. I say these things, knowing full well that degrees mean absolutely nothing except that I was willing (or foolish enough) to throw away my money in hopes of landing a writer's in residence position at a university while trying to avoid a meetup with Mr. Manual Labor as long as I could afford to. Ah, the joys of entertaining the muse in your captain's quarters for a lifetime, eh, William Henley?