A NEW POETIC LICENSE FOR SILENT BEAT BOOMER

blowing his own horn

Thank you to the 81 people who looked in today. I guess I must accept I'm a poet first and foremost. Look at the record. In April this year, my poem "Legacy" was accepted by Washington State poet laureate Tod Marshall for the anthology WA129. In September two of my poems were accepted for publication in Aberration Labyrinth. In October another poem was accepted for inclusion in Portland's Work Literary Magazine, and the Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal is still holding another poem for a "possible" future issue. All this while I'm waiting for someone to accept one of my novels for publication. Today, inspired by the movie Paterson and the poetry of Ron Padgett included in the movie to try a completely new approach to writing poetry, I tore off rough drafts for a couple of new poems. I feel rejuvenated to write poetry in a new way for me. We'll see if inspiration continues. By the way, if you're a poet at heart, watch that movie. It's a paean to poetry by Jim Jarmusch.

BEATNIK BOOMER STRIKES AGAIN

a catheter at close range

I've reduced most days to only three catheterizations: bedtime, morning (as late as possible) and in the afternoon. I've discovered that I can urinate normally for several hours before my bladder gets so extended that the urge to go becomes uncomfortable and it's time to insert the old catheter once again. This urinary practice extends the time between catheterizations. It is one of the benefits of not drinking 64 fluid ounces a day. I've had to learn all these things by myself. No one in the medical profession seems to be expert on the actual trials and tribulations of using a catheter.  

Now some happy literary news. I've had a poem accepted at Work Literary Magazine. Julie Madsen who edits it put out a call on Facebook. She hadn't received enough submissions to fill her online magazine. She's been doing the editing for ages. The poem combines a moment in Henry Miller's Tropic Of Cancer when two turds appear and my job cleaning toilets as a janitor in the very college I received my undergraduate degree from. I was janitoring at the University of Dayton after I had earned my BA in English. The labor was during my drinking and falling apart days when I was cruising the bottom of my capacities, but for all that, the poem is quite interesting, and it's about time someone gave it a home. You can find it online after October 30th.

BEAT BOOMER BEATS WAY THROUGH WRITER'S BLOCKHEAD

Four days pass and another entry on this blog overdue. Lately I've been battling the urge to give up on the Manning novel. Over the last 15 years, I've started at least 6 lengthy projects only to have them die off at 50 to 150 pages. I'm at the 150 page mark with Manning, and I've had to fight through the urge to stop each day for a week now. My brain tells me it wants to go back to doing algebra problems as it did for 6 years every morning after I retired from Mackay Manufacturing. I was happy enough, slogging through math problems just a few years ago, then I get something published in Work Literary Magazine, and the whole yearning awakes again. 

Homes like this one...

This morning, however, I fought through my drab feelings and wrote anyway. Once I got started, I felt much better. Then the sun came out from behind the clouds, the temps reached into the 50s, and after three solid hours of writing, I put on a light jacket to enjoy an hour and a half walk through a neighborhood of people whose successes have allowed them to own very nice homes. For all my blue collar anger at wealthy Americans, those I meet on my walks in this neighborhood are very friendly and welcoming, even if it's no more than a "howdy" greeting. In fact, both greetings this morning were exactly that: "Howdy!"  

Where do they come from, I ask myself with that greeting.

SILENT BOOMER AT THE RED AND BLACK CAFE

Scenes from Red and Black Cafe

My cold's a thing of the past. Boring and repetitious as this news may be—I'm far into Chapter Twelve of the rewrite of Angie's Choice. This morning, I returned to a far flung planet in the Portland Galaxy to do the rewriting. Wife and I discovered the cafe on Sunday when we went looking for a vegan restaurant. I can't afford to cross the river very many days to work in The Red and Black Cafe, but I'll sure try to do it on occasion because of its purposes and its ambiance. It's a co-operative place, and it's owner/workers are members of the International Workers of the World (IWW). It's a few blocks south of Three Friends Coffee House which I've mentioned in the past. 

Last week the news was happily mixed as follows:

Thank you for querying BookEnds and giving me a chance to read your work. After giving careful consideration to your query, I'm afraid that it's not quite the right fit for our Agency. As you know, the publishing industry is very subjective. I evaluate queries based on my own interests—and the interests of the agents I work for—and what our agency is currently looking to acquire. Just because I didn't fall in love with your query doesn't mean that another agent or publisher won't. Keep writing, revising, and querying. Good luck! Best, Beth Campbell Literary Assistant  BookEnds, LLC. 

and

Hi George,
We'll publish your piece 6/24.
Keep up the good work!
team WORK

WORK LITERARY MAGAZINE:
You can read my work-related poem on that site.



Does anyone think my strategy of sharing rejections on this blog will be detrimental to my plan to get someone other than myself to publish one of my four novels? I do invite agents to read this blog occasionally.

THE SILENT BOOMER BEATS A RETREAT

Dear George,
We are pleased to inform you that we would like to publish your piece, "WORKING WITH MEN IN THE MODERN WORLD".  
WORK Literary Magazine

So...another poem finds a nest, and the writer/poet is momentarily happy, but tomorrow is another day with its own moods and writerly problems. Publication date is not yet set. 

the old

Last post, I said I planned to take a break from writer's piston knock and drive to the Washington Coast. I did take that escape for a day, via Oregon's Route 30 through Astoria, an historic town at the mouth of the Columbia River. 

the new

The photos reveal two views from the same spot that I took while stretching my legs along Astoria's riverfront walk. The first represents old Astoria. The next photo which is 180 degrees opposite the first represents the new. There you can see the condominiums that now multiply on every beautiful place found beside the rivers of the United States—starting price $249,000. 

My imagination is always stimulated by sites that reveal the more rugged past in U.S. history. Beside that old fishery wharf, I imagine a saloon where fishermen drank and found solace in the arms of painted women. In my black and white imagination, there's always a bar and a painted woman, but those images, like the old and rugged days of fishing, are visitations from the past. They come straight out of Turner Classic Movies.

Next entry, if I remember to, I'll discuss an interesting lesson in dialogue that I'd have thought I long ago had learnt. (The construction of that last sentence is perfectly legal if somewhat quaint.)