Wednesday, December 11, 2013

People & Books, Authors & Dreams

I think that at 54 years of age I should have some grasp of what it means to be serious, perhaps even have a "plan" for instituting serious things, or imposing my way of thinking/feeling on the world. Butt, alias, I have no such plans. All my work goes to work. I have no plans. I have been a more-than-willing self-criticizer for what I perceived as a kind of Repetitive Life, but then I realized that what I have in place are means, not product. I am, after all, somewhat in the way of fluid. huh.

But, news of me travels no further than the flight of such electronically fueled arrows as the Internet allows me. Yet, I write. I have always written crazy amounts, but I write even more now. This for example (I hate the word "example" for what it means. It sounds so paltry.) is my 47th or so blog posting this year on this URL alone. I also have put 30 or so on my religion blogs, written a couple books, and, at work, billed a second-to-record year. 1740 hours. You're in the business, you know what that means.

All this is one thing, but not everything. I almost envy real writers, and I could go into details, but I would be bending your ear to no purpose. I am, after all, from New Jersey. I am a child of punk rock. There is a perfect symmetry to what I do. I would no longer stand to be nominated for an award then I would suffer the perfectly reasonable demands of all published authors. I would blow it. Guar.An.Teed. There is ever on my lips a fuck you that anticipates success in art.

My dream is to die unknown having left a body of real work.

Now, I know that such a fate leads to nothing. No one, to my knowledge, has died unknown and realized fame. Fame. The very word makes me sick at heart. It suits great writers to be famous. I am not a great writer. I am me. I am a taste and a tendency admixed with a modicum of thought. I do a certain thing or things. I do not want to cloud the waters any more than is necessary.

Writing is necessary - and insofar as someone, anyone, draws a profit, I am glad. But nothing is necessary in art, except I suppose for what is great.

There is all this, but it is not all there is. I have published 26 books now, and I believe what I say, and there is no slowing down. I find my ruminations, virtually unconscious, intruding into all aspects of my life. My writing at work - legal writing - shows this intrusion, and the lawyers I work with praise it. So, what should I do? My favorite poet is Jean Follain, a mid-20th C. Frenchman, who was a corporate layer. Is that a terminus? Probably not. Do I care? No. Why would I?

I am sure I have said this elsewhere, or something like it, that poetry is the fact of having written what appears to others as a poem. I admire and support the efforts of people who appear as poets to others, and those who do not. The analogy is, I suppose, to love those I know and those I do not know. To flow, not to burden or impede. I would hate to impede anyone in anything. Everyone is so much more interesting than any book I know.

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