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.

BEATNIK BEATS ON AFTER NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

Photoprapher find here

Watching the Super Bowl half-heartedly. Fell into a creative funk for a couple of weeks after DAW rejected Ghoul World, and my poetry manuscript about prostate cancer experience also fell short in two prestigious contests. Of course, those contests were filled with many excellent manuscripts by well known poets. I shouldn't feel so bad, but I thought my writing days were done. Nothing was issuing from my inner sanctum except the sound of silence, but this week, a couple of poems were handed out through the sanctum doors into my conscious brain, and I began to write a memoir for the umpteenth time. I've got some interesting psychological thoughts and insights to share, but I have to deal with the old grouch synaptic self that undermines me at every turn. "What makes you think you've got anything worthwhile to say?" I sent Ghoul World limping out again. Hell, it's only been rejected about 20 times. What's that in the scheme of things? Nothing. And two eight line poems slipped into view from the synaptic self. I really love the eight line form and Hanshan's temperament that I fell in love with. Somewhere in my unconscious self, there exists a hermit in the Chinese mountains.