BOOMERIZED BEATNICK ON THE SAME OLD ROAD

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I'm currently tearing to shreds the structure of my science fiction film script Distant Enemies with an intention to add more action in middle of script. I have about 10 to 15 things [poetry and short stories] out to several literary magazines, and I'm facing another rewrite of Ghoul World to correct several major tactical decisions I made in envisioning the whole. They were comical ideas, whimsies that should have never survived a critical look at the novel. For example, the key evil corporation I call McDaniel's and they sell Irisher meat that sustains the non-Irish population. They're called McNugguts. Funny, eh? But really not up to the seriousness of the themes. The poetry manuscript that once was Up Your Ass has become You Awake One Morning, Remembering, primarily because the "you" pov calls so many cultural and political memories into the text. My daughter Eva wants me to keep the original title, and I understand that whole argument too. For all I know Up Your Ass may again become the title. 

My major problem these days is depression and confusion when first awakening. I have trouble making decisions about what's next, and I constantly forget things when I leave the house. Like this morning when I drove to Costco and on the way remembered that I'd forgotten the shopping list. I hate spending so much time in the bathroom too, either pooping or peeing. Ages I spend in there.  

BEATNIK BOOMER'S SPONTANEOUS AMBIVALENT HAPPINESS

I'd been trying to rewrite the prostate cancer manuscript, Up Your Ass, all morning, but the world outside my head was in a parallel universe. I was forced to squint through an opaque curtain to see my poems. I miss hit so many keys I thought my fingers were drunk. Nothing creative happening.

I'd been that way all morning, then out of nowhere by sheer coincidence my wife drives by the Starbucks where I'm "not" working, and she sees my car in the parking lot. She's on the way to visit one of her clients and only has time to say, "Hi, honey," kiss me and mention that I look tired. "Did you get enough sleep?" 

Now she's gone, and I realize yet again that this familiar feeling is the result of not getting enough sleep. Ever since the cancer treatments, my pissing problems get me up all hours of the night, and I have drugged days like this. Way too many of them. Who can work effectively under such conditions?

As if to put a exclamation point on my dilemma, an overpowering and familiar urge to defecate hits me, and I race the length of Starbucks to stave off a dirty diaper, then as I try to type this happening into the blog ... what the hell ... the same urge sends me scurrying again.

Such is the life of a prostate cancer survivor — spontaneous ambivalent happiness.

BUSY AS A BEE-ATNICK WRITER

Do I look as tired as I feel?

This morning, I finally got around to doing something once more toward achieving the first item on my bucket list. I worked on another cover letter to send to potential agents for my novel Ghoul World.  I've put that off for much too long and have not been sending out agent queries for any of my novels. I foresee another rewrite of my novel The Porn Writer too.


I've also been working through a rewrite of the poetry that was inspired by my encounter with prostate cancer last year. I intend to send it around to small publishing houses and to various contests. The title may be morphing from Up Your Ass to Cancer Doesn't Sing ... a reference to the prosaic rather than lyric nature of the poetry. 


The sci fi film script I now call Distant Enemies has been sent its merry way along with 50 dollars via the internet to the BlueCat Screenwriting Contest and, now, I'm preparing to send the first 30 pages of the same script to the Willamette Writers Screenwriting Competition. Deadline is June 15. Fee 10 bucks. A man could grow poor with his writing, eh? Still if feels good to be sending stuff out.

Outside this Starbucks where I write, the sun is shining and the birds are singing and there is a presence in the air that hints of a return to rain and daytime temps in the 60s and nighttime lows in the 40s. Thank you to anyone looking in on these blog entries.

BEATNIK MEETS SELF IN SUNTAN

Today 92 people checked into The Silent Boomer. Have no idea why, but the number of people following this blog has leaped in the last week or so. Thank you to anyone looking in to see how I'm progressing toward my sole bucket list item. Still patiently awaiting the official contract about that poem of mine. Writing progress is as boring a report as I can give—I rewrote Chapter 7 this early afternoon while a steady rain fell on Vancouver Washington across the river from the Portland International Film Festival. Heavenly PIFF XL has gotten in the way of my rewriting task. I'm joyously crossing the Columbia River almost daily to catch a show. Saw the second best film so far last night at Cinema 21—Suntan. Found myself many times during the film, back in my falling apart days in the 1960s and early 70s. A late start after a four year term in US Navy made me an "older dude" as a teaching assistant at Southern Illinois University, drinking heavily and too much attracted to far too many women too young for me. Of course, I didn't go half so far as Kostis does in Suntan, but I felt what he felt more than once back in those bedeviled days. Worse...I was married.

Last night before the film, after eating at Dick's on 21st, I took a dreamy rainy walk eastward from 21st Avenue toward the heart of Portland, found a little coffee shop on 18th, World Cup Coffee. Sat in the rainy night across the street from the International Hostel building, reading E.O. Wilson's brilliant book, The Meaning of Human Existence and dreaming about all those things an aging man thinks about who has not exactly stormed the citadel of fame and fortune as a writer. I tried to start a poem and laughed at myself. Those poetic days are through, I thought, then found myself starting another Up Your Ass prostate cancer poem last night about the bloody pee I splashed into the bowl two nights ago. I mean bloody pee. Scared the living daylights out of me. But such events often result from irradiation of the prostate. E.O. Wilson makes me want to live to be 150 and see what wonders lie ahead. A delicious night last night, all in all. 

THE THAW

Mr. Sunlight peeking in.......

Starbucks on 162nd Avenue, Vancouver Washington. A cold day at 3:47pm, but Mr. Sunlight is beginning the thaw that a rainy tomorrow will complete. If not tomorrow, the next day at least when the rain will pour. Speaking of pouring, I'm back on track with rewriting Ghoul World, and I see ahead after the Ghoul World rewrite several projects that I've mentioned in the past: (1) putting together the chapbook Up Your Ass about the prostate cancer experience [hopefully in the past], (2) putting together the best of my short stories into a book Many Voices One Head for sending to writing contests and (3) gathering a collection of poetry from all the "periods" of my life together for contest entries. And after that (4) I see myself writing some movies and plays. On another hand, getting back to sketching intrigues me. When I'm not doing any of the above, you can find me with mechanical pencil in hand—eraser on the end—working crossword puzzles or Sudoku. Yesterday I watched from a distance a professorial type older gentleman working away at a crossword puzzle with a pen.

ASIDE: Finished Saturday's Sudoku in two tries. The tiny slip ups of concentration can raise hell.

REMEMBERING A CHILDHOOD WITH TIGE IN THE BASEMENT

"That's My Dog Tige, He Lives In A Shoe. I'm Buster Brown, Look For Me in There Too" When I was a kid, I had to do chores in the basement frequently, and I listened to a radio show as I worked. Buster Brown shoes advertised on that show. Froggy the magic frog who twanged his "magic twanger" was also on that show. No double entendre intended. 

HO HUM, HO HUM, IT'S OFF TO REWRITE HO HUM I GO. I must admit that my writing energy is at low ebb. Part of the decline is because we were out of town over the Christmas holiday, and I'm trying to get myself back into harness, but it keeps slipping off my back. Some of my lack of interest is a hangover, I believe, from the cancer scare. For many months, I lived in a bag or sack, a psychic state of existence for sure. No certain future lay ahead for me.  

To compensate for my low energy, I'm enclosing a poem I wrote for the poetry chapbook Up Your Ass about my prostate cancer. Perhaps the last piece of original writing I've done. I'm not happy with it so it ends with an ellipsis that suggests future work? Perhaps also I need to rethink the title.

BEATNIK BOOMER DOESN'T DIE. NOW WHAT?

Nothing could be more boring than hearing about another damn Booming rewrite. Right? But that's all I have to report. I'm rewriting Ghoul World. 

I've had a couple more rejections come in of work I'd submitted only to the most prestigious and paying markets. What do I expect? My work is nothing like what passes for writing these days. It's not young enough and it's style, of necessity, does not ring true in a youthful mind. As I think of the style of my writing, I realize how cosmopolitan most young writers are. I'd class my story as appealing to a Richard Hugo or James Welch audience of old. One of my best stories, and I know it's well written, is from the pov of a drifter and blue collar dude who finds himself working in boom town Gillette Wyoming. He befriends a naif young veteran who gets himself involved with a very troubled and promiscuous female. How it works out must remain a mystery as the story is a mystery that never gets solved.

Another writing problem is how to finish the poetry book [more likely chapbook] Up Your Ass about the 8 month cancer bout I just finished dealing with. I have no interest currently to write a concluding poem, but I feel the series requires one. It's almost a disappointment that it won't end in my death. I know...how could I say that? Well, writing requires a conclusion, and I'm not ready to conclude yet. Happy trails to you...so Roy Rogers would say. 

REWRITE REWRITE, RIGHT?

Hello! Hell, times fly and seniors stumble. According to blog aficionados, I've been too many days between entries, but blogdarnit, I'm not an aficionado of blogs. Here's the latest news. I'm on my 4th? my 5th? or my 6th? rewrite of Ghoul World. I don't know. Each time I rewrite I attempt to cut away dross, make my sentences more straightforward. I did this morning have an idea for a new story appear from the hidden realms of my brain into consciousness which, it so happens, is only capable of holding 7 thoughts or words or images at any one time. Such is the fragmented nature of human reality. I also strongly intend to got to Ghost Town open mic where I've been absent for all the 8 months while I learned of and had my prostate cancer irradiated. I'm going to read four poems from my cancer chapbook. Each day I feel my strength returning, and I push my exercises to more intensity. Have I mentioned that before treatment I used to do 20 to 25 sit ups, but now can do but 3 or 4? Stopping here. Gotta dash home and make spaghetti for supper.

BEATNIK BOOMER FEELS HAPPILY BLAH

Yesterday my wife and I visited my radiation treatment doctor, and he declared, "Your body's free of cancer." My wife's ecstatic, but I continue in my present calm state of one day at a time. Now, all I've got to do is concentrate on my bucket list item, but, wouldn't you know? After several days not writing that included Thanksgiving's pleasant visit of my daughter, her husband and my youngest son to eat ham and everything else vegan and to play board games, I've lost the impulse to continue writing. Even the happy PSA reading hasn't brought a poem, and the poetry contained in Up Your Ass inspired by my prostate cancer seems dull and silly. I see no opening ahead, no light of inspiration streaming in through the tunnel walls I'm walking in. I'm 79 years old and, interestingly, a hand-written rejection note from Fiddlehead was penned on my October 20th birthday, a birthday gift I just received in yesterday's mail. Will this period of writer's block pass? Who knows. I'm getting old, but the bucket's over a distant hill now, and I've a far piece to walk ahead.

BEATNIK SORT OF EXPERIENCE: POOP

Finished for a time the rewrite of a story called "Down Home Man". I have another great short story idea and I've still got a novel to completely rewrite, Delinquent Lives, and I'm working on another poem for Up Your Ass. It's to be called "Two Days" and made up of two oddly contrasted experiences that happened over two consecutive days. Below are the rough notes for day two. It's been a Facebook entry so maybe you've seen it already. Forgive it's length.

Ah, it's great to be old. I had another fascinating experience today. Some would say this will be far too much information. Several years ago I started having bouts of bowel incontinence. I cut out coffee and tree nuts, and I thought I was doing well, but, no, even then, every month or so I'd have an accident. Then the prostate cancer and medicines and specially the radiation treatments can also create urinary and bowel problems, so recently, I've been wearing diapers every morning and leave them on until I get home. This morning we had a plumber over at 8:30am to fix a leaky faucet in the tub in our guest bathroom. He was a pleasant young man and very proficient. We exchanged many pleasantries, and, as he was leaving, I told him, "I think I'm going to celebrate and go out for breakfast. I don't know why. I haven't done anything. You did all the work." We shook hands and he left, and I departed not long after. I felt so healthy that I decided for the first time in months not to wear a diaper [now you all know where this is going]. Intending also to break my vegan diet, I marched out into a brilliant sunshine morning to a newly remodeled Sharis for breakfast. I ordered hot chocolate and from the honored menu a two egg cheese/ham omelet and French toast. While waiting, I was reading a book that a Facebook friend has written, The Triple Diamond Sutra. Humorous as hell and entertaining. The morning was going swimmingly. My interactions with the waitress were pleasant if not informative. Then it came time to pay the bill, and I carried my bill to the cash register, as you do at Sharis, and my waitress was also the one who came to the register to ring me up and swipe my credit card. That's when it happened of course. The credit card was in her hand when I experienced the tiny familiar burp feeling in my bowels that occurs without warning, and I said, "Excuse me, I've got to run to the bathroom." Of course, once I feel that tiny burp, it is already too late. All the way to bathroom, I was offloading a pile of food that had seen better days. By the time I reached the throne room, there was nothing left to offload. What a mess. I had to clean up the toilet, the floor and myself and wrap my soiled underwear in paper towels and throw the whole mess into the trash. Fortunately, the underwear was sufficient to protect my cotton trousers so no stains had appeared in the rear area. Of course, being without shame, I told the new woman at the cash register who was holding my credit card for me all about it. "I had to rush off to the bathroom," I explained. She said, "Yes, I understand those moments." "And I wasn't wearing a diaper," I continued. "What a mess." Later I realized the image my remark must have left in her mind. What can a man make of all this stuff? Yesterday afternoon, a kindly woman, probable thinking of me as a father figure, offers me a cross. Last night the Cubs win their first World Series since 1908. This morning I'm reading The Triple Diamond Sutra at Sharis and, within minutes, I'm shitting my pants. You can't make this stuff up. I'm sure there's a deeper meaning somewhere in all this chaos.

THE SILENT BOOMER AND BILL MURRAY ON THE SAME PAGE

Wonderful Friday night, my wife's home from work, and we just watched Bill Murray being awarded the Kennedy Center Mark Twain Award, and isn't it funny to watch an old dude like Bill and wonder how he grew so old while you remain so young? Speaking of which, I turned 79 this month on the 20th, and I'm still pursuing my goal fiercely, when I'm not weeping for myself, to get someone other than myself to publish a novel I've written. 


I'm slowly rewriting a short story from a first person narrative into a combined third person/omniscient pov, and I've even sent off a couple of haikus to haiku magazines. I've got a hundred of them at least. These last two days I've been working on another prostate cancer poem for Up Your Ass, and I'm beginning to understand what I'm trying to do. I'm layering in historical personages, friends, details from my own and others lives and historical moments and surrounding them with my mortality and letting them sit side by side to percolate together, hoping that something enticing will show up to stimulate a reader's mind. I no longer experience those powerful moments when words are summoned from out of nowhere by emotion and bonded in metaphor to mean something else. I guess imagination still works, but much more gently. Why else would Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Gabby Hayes, Nancy and her "Ronnie" Reagan appear together in the poem I'm working on? The inspiration is still there, but it doesn't torture me so much. 

ECSTATIC SILENT BEATNIC BOOMER SYMPHONIZES

So many projects this morning, my head is full. 

Reading the THE COMPLETE STORIES OF TRUMAN CAPOTE which I must soon return to Clark College library. 

A collection of my selected poems altered from third and first person to second person "you" entitled THE WORLD OUTSIDE MYSELF or ... OUTSIDE MY HEAD. 

At least two stories I want to alter from first person narrator to a third person point of view or an omniscient pov. 

Finish the rewrites of stories for collection into a book MANY VOICES, ONE HEAD. 

Create a very sotto voce symphony based on the silent communication and states of people texting or Facebooking. Of course, I can't write music, but I see all these people in my head silently staring at screens in the middle of noisy confusion and how a symphonic passage expressing that situation might sound. Is this because wife and I have bought season tickets to VSO the past three seasons?

Start and finish another poem for my poetry book UP YOUR ASS that might begin with:

The word came through on Facebook that Ray is dead at 84. 
His prostate cancer finally took him away. 
You feel certain you're not going to live much longer yourself. 
Why is that you wonder? It's raining today, a fitting state...
the world coming down to celebrate your state of mind....  
et cetera and something along those lines but made more poetic by arrangement and stress.

Ah...where to begin? Decided to work on the rewrite of another story for the collection of fiction MANY VOICES, ONE HEAD.

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.

TIMEX AND PROSTATE CANCER THRILL THE SILENT BOOMER

The odds have just increased "against" achieving my oft stated goal to get someone other than myself to publish a novel of mine before I kick the bucket. At age 78, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Early into his 80th year, it killed him. As he told me, sad regret in his voice, "I guess I got the aggressive kind." I'm 78 myself and on Monday April 18th, 2016, my primary doc felt a prostate nodule. Today, Monday April 25th, a urologist confirmed the lump on my prostate. He said, "I can always be wrong, but if I was a betting man, I'd say it's cancerous." After a stool sample is checked, I'm to go in for a biopsy. Going to be a lot of probing and sticking of things up my butt.

I don't understand all my emotions, but, driving away from the clinic, I was in some way energized by the thought of facing my own death. Don't know if inspiration will continue, but I've begun a book of poetry, called "Up Your Ass".  Here's the first poem in the series.

DIGITAL EXAM

Your doctor feels something,

Then you feel something.

After that, you and the grim reaper

Exchange cell phone numbers.

While your insurance company

Stands by for consultation, you

Hear your digital Timex ticking.

I can't help wondering how much more interested an agent and book publisher might be if I tell them they're racing against time to get me into print and the fact that more than 250 people—maybe more once the news gets out—are following my anticipated death? Will they race against my prostate cancer to see who wins? Will I have the balls to include this new fact in all my query letters to agents? After my publication and death, will all my fellow writers mourn, "Damn, I wish I had prostate cancer."