6/29/2007
It's so philosophical in here! I know that people like me enjoy pondering Dostoevsky's thoughts about God and the world. I know these thoughts illuminate my own walk through the garden, and light up my own words. I need this, since I'm writing my great popular novel right now. However, I also know there are writers looking at these things--Basho? what the heck can Basho tell me???--who want some hard-core WRITING stuff. That's why so many of you go to writing workshops and retreats.
For years, I have offered my participants (not really students, since I usually learn more than they do just by being with them) a bunch of writing materials I call "Workshop In A Box." If you have hung out with me at Fishtrap, or at the Northwest Writing Institute, or some other holy place, you've probably received copies of the Workshop.
I've been thinking it would be fun to disseminate exercises (I hate that word--sounds like the treadmill). Let's use Kim Stafford's preferred term: writing prompts. Let's keep in the gardening mode (y'all ought to see my angel-face flowers and my blood flowers); we'll call them seeds. Right?
It seems to me that the secret to writing is to fool yourself out of the heavy burden of writing. I wrote to you, ages ago, about a friend who spent months trying to set up his writing room--he puttered so long that he never actually wrote, just moved furniture around and placed interesting objects on the shelves. That's cool, don't get me wrong--feng shui is art, too! But for a guy who wants to be the next Ginsberg, you have to sooner or later risk words on paper. (I'm old fashioned that way, I love notebooks, but I'll take pixels on a screen in a pinch.)
It's recess! Party! Could be church, if you're that type. Could be an orgy!
So, for those who need some tasks and projects, I'll put them up here for you. Between the prompts and Immigration Monday, this is turning into a full-service blog!
Why don't we do this on Sundays? Writing Church!
Here are a couple of simple, yet effective, things you can do to get the ball of Wen-Fu, Wabi-Sabi, zen, duende, writing-medicine, composition, inspiration rolling. (To me, it's all a form of prayer.)
#
writing church is in early session--
To overcome writer's block or the difficulty of beginning a project, write about the writer's block or the difficulty of beginning.
You'd be surprised what a healthy dose of venting can do for you. What's your beef? What's your fear? Don't try to explain the project, the idea, and don't for heaven's sake actually start writing it! (Ha ha--you won't be able to help yourself very soon.) Talk about the process of doing it. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT SPELLING, GRAMMAR, PUNCTUATION, EDITORS, YOUR BIOGRAPHERS, POSTERITY, HOMELAND SECURITY, THE POPE, AGENTS, HOLLYWOOD or FOX NEWS. This is for you, about you, and it's perfect no matter what you write.
To tell your story, address it to a friend or loved one--alive, dead, imaginary, wished for, remembered, or yet to come--and tell them. If you don't have anybody you want to whisper to, tell it to me.
You know, journals and diaries are really letters to yourself; letters are really journals and diaries written for someone else. One of the assignments I used to give writers in Arizona was to write me a letter and mail it to my p.o. box. Thus, they would be submitting their work. I answered all the letters. Instant writing community. I had to stop it--when you get smelly clothes and old cowboy boots in the mail, it tends to creep out your family. That was a highwire act for a single man.
So tell your heart's reader on the page--send them a soul-telegram. Tell the most sympathetic ear you can conjure.
PART TWO of this prompt: write a letter to writing itself. Yes, writing is alive, it's real, it is a responsive presence! (More on this in a later posting.) Just trust me; I'm in shamanic mode here. I'm in evangelical mode! Friends, put your hands on the computer screen and PRAY with me! Amen and Amen-ah! Write a letter to writing and tell writing what you want from it. Why have you approached? What is your request? Don't fear sounding silly. Dare to be stupid, I say! Look how silly we seem when we learn to walk, swim, dance, deliver a roundhouse kick in karate. What can writing do for you, and what can you do for writing?
Make lists.
Lists! The first writings we have from Sumeria are lists of who owned the goats, and what Enki paid for them. Lists are old and pure and fun. Have you ever seen the book 10,000 Things to be Happy About? There's a book called I Remember. There's a book called Instant karma. All simple lists. All really cool.
If you make a list, a DIRECTED list, mind you, you will not be able to help yourself. You'll make poetry. You'll go off on a tangent and write something. If you just set out to make any old list, you'll make babble. "Eggs, Johnny Depp, MTV, school, stretch marks, waffles." Nah. We can do better than this.
A list like "things that are blue" is good for grade school kids. "Smelly things." "Sweet things." But we're grown up now, and we need to open the flower clenched inside our heads. A list like "The 25 Most Meaningful Things Ever Said to Me," now that's a list! "100 Reasons to Live." Not cool stuff, not neat things. Reasons to live. Look, if you can't come up with 100 reasons to be here on this earth, you're screwed. But hey--you can write about that, too. AA folks sometimes make "gratitude lists" to remember why it's good to still be alive. Try it. Since I like to bitch, a lot, I have nothing against "50 Things I'm Really Really Angry About." (The Arab culture had a form of poetry we could call "Abhorrences"--it ain't all love songs.)
Here are two lists that might help you chart your course as a writer.
I Remember.
List 10, 25, 50, 100 things you remember. That simple. Don't be arty. "I remember...." Bang, bang, bang! Get 'em down! What do you remember, my friend? Because what you remember is what your architecture is based on. I promise that you will remember that old chair that Aunt Bettie fell asleep in. Once you get to Aunt Bettie's chair, how can you not digress and write about Aunt Bettie? You'll remember making love to ________ or making out with _______
or wanting to do either of the above with _________. (Did I tell you to make sure you can put your work somewhere private, so the kids and the spouse can't find it? This is between you and First Beauty, after all.) How can you not want to write about their eyes, the way they smelled, the way things went wrong or right, the sadness, the joy?
It's so easy to do, until it gets hard. If your list makes you cry or weep or sit and stare out the window in awe and reverence, baby--you're a writer. And you're really good at non-fiction.
What My Hands Remember.
This is a whole lot more intense and strange than the list of "I Remembers." I have had sophisticated grad student types tell me this is a bad exercise that leads to nothing interesting, then read the best poems they've written all semester to the workshop to their great surprise. It's not because I am a genius (I am); it's because they are geniuses (genii?).
This list is more intense because it's more focused.
Your hands remember. If you don't believe me, just ask them. Your feet and eyes and belly and butt and tongue all remember too. But they remember different things than your hands do--and they have different moods. You'll see. You think I'm nuts, but like I told you--dare to be stupid! I don't mind! I will be your Foole for the moment.
I will be Huila for a moment.
Your hands remember. And the writing can be very naughty, so be ready. It can be very sad. It can be funny. It can be unbearably touching (no pun intended). Be open. Your hands, once they realize your brain is asking them a question, will be thrilled to confess. As my California buds used to say: "They'll be majorly stoked, dudes and dudesses." Power rushes out of your hands. Once you have listened to them, how could you not love them?
If you don't have hands, listen to the scared part of you that first senses the world for you.
Now, if your list makes you laugh or weep, or stare out the window in awe--you're a writer, baby! And you're really, really good at imaginative work--you might be a novelist.
#
Write! Write! Don't DO writing, BE writing--if your ARE writing, then everything you do IS writing! Even if you don't believe in God, dig the Biblical story: God said his name was I AM. He didn't say his name was I WANNA BE, or I'M GONNA BE, or even I MIGHT BE BUT I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT IT. Frank Zappa said: You Are What You Is. So get into the isness of writing. In this way, you can nurse that baby, work that assembly line, teach that Math class, clean that house, ride that bus, drive that truck, and not feel guilty, not feel like you have betrayed what you most desire in your heart. Because it is all, all of it, even that divorce you're enduring, even that funeral, WRITING. The trick is to carve out space and time to move it from your veins to the world.
Yow! Jump back, kiss myself!
The Hardest Working Man in the Writing Business
Writing Meditation: Beauty, Beauty 6/28
For years, I have offered my participants (not really students, since I usually learn more than they do just by being with them) a bunch of writing materials I call "Workshop In A Box." If you have hung out with me at Fishtrap, or at the Northwest Writing Institute, or some other holy place, you've probably received copies of the Workshop.
I've been thinking it would be fun to disseminate exercises (I hate that word--sounds like the treadmill). Let's use Kim Stafford's preferred term: writing prompts. Let's keep in the gardening mode (y'all ought to see my angel-face flowers and my blood flowers); we'll call them seeds. Right?
It seems to me that the secret to writing is to fool yourself out of the heavy burden of writing. I wrote to you, ages ago, about a friend who spent months trying to set up his writing room--he puttered so long that he never actually wrote, just moved furniture around and placed interesting objects on the shelves. That's cool, don't get me wrong--feng shui is art, too! But for a guy who wants to be the next Ginsberg, you have to sooner or later risk words on paper. (I'm old fashioned that way, I love notebooks, but I'll take pixels on a screen in a pinch.)
It's recess! Party! Could be church, if you're that type. Could be an orgy!
So, for those who need some tasks and projects, I'll put them up here for you. Between the prompts and Immigration Monday, this is turning into a full-service blog!
Why don't we do this on Sundays? Writing Church!
Here are a couple of simple, yet effective, things you can do to get the ball of Wen-Fu, Wabi-Sabi, zen, duende, writing-medicine, composition, inspiration rolling. (To me, it's all a form of prayer.)
#
writing church is in early session--
To overcome writer's block or the difficulty of beginning a project, write about the writer's block or the difficulty of beginning.
You'd be surprised what a healthy dose of venting can do for you. What's your beef? What's your fear? Don't try to explain the project, the idea, and don't for heaven's sake actually start writing it! (Ha ha--you won't be able to help yourself very soon.) Talk about the process of doing it. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT SPELLING, GRAMMAR, PUNCTUATION, EDITORS, YOUR BIOGRAPHERS, POSTERITY, HOMELAND SECURITY, THE POPE, AGENTS, HOLLYWOOD or FOX NEWS. This is for you, about you, and it's perfect no matter what you write.
To tell your story, address it to a friend or loved one--alive, dead, imaginary, wished for, remembered, or yet to come--and tell them. If you don't have anybody you want to whisper to, tell it to me.
You know, journals and diaries are really letters to yourself; letters are really journals and diaries written for someone else. One of the assignments I used to give writers in Arizona was to write me a letter and mail it to my p.o. box. Thus, they would be submitting their work. I answered all the letters. Instant writing community. I had to stop it--when you get smelly clothes and old cowboy boots in the mail, it tends to creep out your family. That was a highwire act for a single man.
So tell your heart's reader on the page--send them a soul-telegram. Tell the most sympathetic ear you can conjure.
PART TWO of this prompt: write a letter to writing itself. Yes, writing is alive, it's real, it is a responsive presence! (More on this in a later posting.) Just trust me; I'm in shamanic mode here. I'm in evangelical mode! Friends, put your hands on the computer screen and PRAY with me! Amen and Amen-ah! Write a letter to writing and tell writing what you want from it. Why have you approached? What is your request? Don't fear sounding silly. Dare to be stupid, I say! Look how silly we seem when we learn to walk, swim, dance, deliver a roundhouse kick in karate. What can writing do for you, and what can you do for writing?
Make lists.
Lists! The first writings we have from Sumeria are lists of who owned the goats, and what Enki paid for them. Lists are old and pure and fun. Have you ever seen the book 10,000 Things to be Happy About? There's a book called I Remember. There's a book called Instant karma. All simple lists. All really cool.
If you make a list, a DIRECTED list, mind you, you will not be able to help yourself. You'll make poetry. You'll go off on a tangent and write something. If you just set out to make any old list, you'll make babble. "Eggs, Johnny Depp, MTV, school, stretch marks, waffles." Nah. We can do better than this.
A list like "things that are blue" is good for grade school kids. "Smelly things." "Sweet things." But we're grown up now, and we need to open the flower clenched inside our heads. A list like "The 25 Most Meaningful Things Ever Said to Me," now that's a list! "100 Reasons to Live." Not cool stuff, not neat things. Reasons to live. Look, if you can't come up with 100 reasons to be here on this earth, you're screwed. But hey--you can write about that, too. AA folks sometimes make "gratitude lists" to remember why it's good to still be alive. Try it. Since I like to bitch, a lot, I have nothing against "50 Things I'm Really Really Angry About." (The Arab culture had a form of poetry we could call "Abhorrences"--it ain't all love songs.)
Here are two lists that might help you chart your course as a writer.
I Remember.
List 10, 25, 50, 100 things you remember. That simple. Don't be arty. "I remember...." Bang, bang, bang! Get 'em down! What do you remember, my friend? Because what you remember is what your architecture is based on. I promise that you will remember that old chair that Aunt Bettie fell asleep in. Once you get to Aunt Bettie's chair, how can you not digress and write about Aunt Bettie? You'll remember making love to ________ or making out with _______
or wanting to do either of the above with _________. (Did I tell you to make sure you can put your work somewhere private, so the kids and the spouse can't find it? This is between you and First Beauty, after all.) How can you not want to write about their eyes, the way they smelled, the way things went wrong or right, the sadness, the joy?
It's so easy to do, until it gets hard. If your list makes you cry or weep or sit and stare out the window in awe and reverence, baby--you're a writer. And you're really good at non-fiction.
What My Hands Remember.
This is a whole lot more intense and strange than the list of "I Remembers." I have had sophisticated grad student types tell me this is a bad exercise that leads to nothing interesting, then read the best poems they've written all semester to the workshop to their great surprise. It's not because I am a genius (I am); it's because they are geniuses (genii?).
This list is more intense because it's more focused.
Your hands remember. If you don't believe me, just ask them. Your feet and eyes and belly and butt and tongue all remember too. But they remember different things than your hands do--and they have different moods. You'll see. You think I'm nuts, but like I told you--dare to be stupid! I don't mind! I will be your Foole for the moment.
I will be Huila for a moment.
Your hands remember. And the writing can be very naughty, so be ready. It can be very sad. It can be funny. It can be unbearably touching (no pun intended). Be open. Your hands, once they realize your brain is asking them a question, will be thrilled to confess. As my California buds used to say: "They'll be majorly stoked, dudes and dudesses." Power rushes out of your hands. Once you have listened to them, how could you not love them?
If you don't have hands, listen to the scared part of you that first senses the world for you.
Now, if your list makes you laugh or weep, or stare out the window in awe--you're a writer, baby! And you're really, really good at imaginative work--you might be a novelist.
#
Write! Write! Don't DO writing, BE writing--if your ARE writing, then everything you do IS writing! Even if you don't believe in God, dig the Biblical story: God said his name was I AM. He didn't say his name was I WANNA BE, or I'M GONNA BE, or even I MIGHT BE BUT I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT IT. Frank Zappa said: You Are What You Is. So get into the isness of writing. In this way, you can nurse that baby, work that assembly line, teach that Math class, clean that house, ride that bus, drive that truck, and not feel guilty, not feel like you have betrayed what you most desire in your heart. Because it is all, all of it, even that divorce you're enduring, even that funeral, WRITING. The trick is to carve out space and time to move it from your veins to the world.
Yow! Jump back, kiss myself!
The Hardest Working Man in the Writing Business
6/28/2007
In antiquity, Plotinus called God "The First Beauty." That strikes me as a fine description of what I see when I look toward The Infinite. Perhaps it's a definition that even my atheist pals can embrace. I was an atheist myself...when I was fifteen and smarter than God.
First Beauty--can I deny it is what I need to feel inside, under and behind my words when I write? If I don't feel the burn of sun, the stench of mud, the intoxication of flowers, the dizziness of love, the trance of sex, the rocking of water, the tides of rocks when I write, I tear up the page or switch off the computer. I'm not saying it's good...that's another issue often decided by English teachers, editors, or the gnomes who give letter grades for reviews at Entertainment Weekly. But it has to be...indwelled.
Here's a thought about writing that Basho would have appreciated. Geronimo, too. As always, we aren't just talking about writing here, are we?
Fyodor Dostoevsky said:
"Love all God's creation, both the whole and every grain of sand. Love every leaf, every ray of light. Love the animals, love the plants, love each separate thing. If thou love each thing, thou wilt perceive the mysery of God in all; and when thou perceive thus, thou wilt thenceforward grow every day to a fuller understanding of it; until thou come at last to love the whole world with a love that will then be all-embracing and universal."
Man, Dostoevsky--what a simp! Too bad his attitude didn't help him write any books!
Thenceforward,
Luis
Wild Wednesday
First Beauty--can I deny it is what I need to feel inside, under and behind my words when I write? If I don't feel the burn of sun, the stench of mud, the intoxication of flowers, the dizziness of love, the trance of sex, the rocking of water, the tides of rocks when I write, I tear up the page or switch off the computer. I'm not saying it's good...that's another issue often decided by English teachers, editors, or the gnomes who give letter grades for reviews at Entertainment Weekly. But it has to be...indwelled.
Here's a thought about writing that Basho would have appreciated. Geronimo, too. As always, we aren't just talking about writing here, are we?
Fyodor Dostoevsky said:
"Love all God's creation, both the whole and every grain of sand. Love every leaf, every ray of light. Love the animals, love the plants, love each separate thing. If thou love each thing, thou wilt perceive the mysery of God in all; and when thou perceive thus, thou wilt thenceforward grow every day to a fuller understanding of it; until thou come at last to love the whole world with a love that will then be all-embracing and universal."
Man, Dostoevsky--what a simp! Too bad his attitude didn't help him write any books!
Thenceforward,
Luis
6/27/2007
Storms and more storms. But they only last for twenty minutes. First it's ninety degrees, then it's seventy. One day the garden is huge, the next day it's wilted. I go out to water, and it starts to rain. Then the sun comes out, and it rains in full sunlight. Keeps things interesting.
Immigration Monday starts...on Monday! Check it out right here, same time, same channel.
Well, amigos and amigas--I have been writing for several days now. Feeling like hell. Hot and bored and listening to music and burning candles (for that good spiritula light) and burning incense (for that old Hummingbird vibe) and smudging the desk with sage oils. All kinds of spaced out rituals left over from my shaman-saint years. Basically to distract me from planting my butt in the chair. But I've been writing.
As you know, I wrote House of Broken Angels this year. BUT IT WAS DEEMED TOO SHOCKING. That's right--I committed a thought-crime of some sort, and the great powers above me felt that you, my friendly book-club-lovin' readers, would fall over dead if I unleashed a furious book upon you like that one. I was frustrated in my arguments--after all, The Devil's Highway is hardly a gigglefest...and if you think about it, Hummingbird's Daughter is charming, but it deals with genocide, poverty, violence against women, the poor and the indigenous peoples of the Americas. In fact, if you look at the Urrea bookshelf, you'll find lots of really nasty stuff. So the outcome of this difficult change of direction for me was that they made me an offer: write something else. And then write Hummingbird II. Then we'll think about this Broken Angels business.
Fortunately, Wen-Fu and the Theory and Practice of Trust (Faith!) never fail, and I had a killer idea. And I'm two excellent (if I do say so myself) chapters in. It looks like it's going to fly. It's going to make you happy. It's a secret.
Soon, Cinderella and I will be flying to England, where we'll meet up with the Queen Mary II, and I'll be the Atlantic Corssing's dancing lit-monkey. I have to get a tux. If you know me, you know that if I find a shirt with buttons on it, that's really dressing up! Putting on shoes--forget about it.
Remember what the master, Issa, said: Simply Trust.
Yrs., L
Nuff Said Meditation, Tuesday
Immigration Monday starts...on Monday! Check it out right here, same time, same channel.
Well, amigos and amigas--I have been writing for several days now. Feeling like hell. Hot and bored and listening to music and burning candles (for that good spiritula light) and burning incense (for that old Hummingbird vibe) and smudging the desk with sage oils. All kinds of spaced out rituals left over from my shaman-saint years. Basically to distract me from planting my butt in the chair. But I've been writing.
As you know, I wrote House of Broken Angels this year. BUT IT WAS DEEMED TOO SHOCKING. That's right--I committed a thought-crime of some sort, and the great powers above me felt that you, my friendly book-club-lovin' readers, would fall over dead if I unleashed a furious book upon you like that one. I was frustrated in my arguments--after all, The Devil's Highway is hardly a gigglefest...and if you think about it, Hummingbird's Daughter is charming, but it deals with genocide, poverty, violence against women, the poor and the indigenous peoples of the Americas. In fact, if you look at the Urrea bookshelf, you'll find lots of really nasty stuff. So the outcome of this difficult change of direction for me was that they made me an offer: write something else. And then write Hummingbird II. Then we'll think about this Broken Angels business.
Fortunately, Wen-Fu and the Theory and Practice of Trust (Faith!) never fail, and I had a killer idea. And I'm two excellent (if I do say so myself) chapters in. It looks like it's going to fly. It's going to make you happy. It's a secret.
Soon, Cinderella and I will be flying to England, where we'll meet up with the Queen Mary II, and I'll be the Atlantic Corssing's dancing lit-monkey. I have to get a tux. If you know me, you know that if I find a shirt with buttons on it, that's really dressing up! Putting on shoes--forget about it.
Remember what the master, Issa, said: Simply Trust.
Yrs., L
6/26/2007 Monday, Monday
6/25/2007
"We must always change, renew, rejuvenate ourselves; otherwise we harden." --Goethe
Next week, we launch "Immigration Monday." It's just a small acorn of an idea--let's see what happens. Maybe a scraggly tree will grow. I hope to post something about immigration/border issues here every week. Might be nothing--might be a book. I don't know. I have invited others to take part, so I hope to post essays, notes, letters, poems from other writers about the topic. For and against. I don't care what position people take, as long as they are informed. Lots of inflammation out there, but there's no information. Has anybody ever explained to you what "illegal immigration" means? By law? What law is being broken? What is the precise law: what does it say? Let's look into it. Are there any really informative new books about the subject? Let's see. Links to articles? Right here. Let's make a full-service immigration site. Just one day a week. The rest of the week, we can explore writing and soul and gardens and family together. But it might be amazing to see what we come up with. I don't mean the royal "we," either. I mean you and me. Send me somethin'.
Our motto: Redefine the Line.
Also, if I get any love letters or hate mail, I'll post them, too. It's my way of trying to talk it out, because it's bothering me. So c'mon, old enemies--invite me to lick your boots some more!
A reader named John contacted me with a grand idea--he had tracked the GPS co-ordinates in The Devil's Highway and found them all on google earth. Isn't that cool? I'm hoping to put that up on "I. Monday" too.
The web is viral--we can get everywhere with a click.
Send pictures.
Also, as July comes sneaking in, I begin a new book. Now, many blogfans followed my postings about House of Broken Angels. I'll figure out how to explain what happened with that book, and why you won't be seeing it...yet. I have a new novel ready to pop out, and then I have to get to Hummingbird II. Lots of writing ahead. Lots of travel. Lots of appearances. Lots of grumbling, moaning, bitching, whining, complaining. So I don't know how well I can keep up the "I. Monday" project, but even if we run with it for a summer, we'll get more revealed than the TV and magazines do. And who knows--if it's a success, maybe someone else will run with it.
Don't harden, dear friends--flex! And if you're Duran Duran, re-re-reflex!
Abrazos, L
You Learn Something New Every Day
Next week, we launch "Immigration Monday." It's just a small acorn of an idea--let's see what happens. Maybe a scraggly tree will grow. I hope to post something about immigration/border issues here every week. Might be nothing--might be a book. I don't know. I have invited others to take part, so I hope to post essays, notes, letters, poems from other writers about the topic. For and against. I don't care what position people take, as long as they are informed. Lots of inflammation out there, but there's no information. Has anybody ever explained to you what "illegal immigration" means? By law? What law is being broken? What is the precise law: what does it say? Let's look into it. Are there any really informative new books about the subject? Let's see. Links to articles? Right here. Let's make a full-service immigration site. Just one day a week. The rest of the week, we can explore writing and soul and gardens and family together. But it might be amazing to see what we come up with. I don't mean the royal "we," either. I mean you and me. Send me somethin'.
Our motto: Redefine the Line.
Also, if I get any love letters or hate mail, I'll post them, too. It's my way of trying to talk it out, because it's bothering me. So c'mon, old enemies--invite me to lick your boots some more!
A reader named John contacted me with a grand idea--he had tracked the GPS co-ordinates in The Devil's Highway and found them all on google earth. Isn't that cool? I'm hoping to put that up on "I. Monday" too.
The web is viral--we can get everywhere with a click.
Send pictures.
Also, as July comes sneaking in, I begin a new book. Now, many blogfans followed my postings about House of Broken Angels. I'll figure out how to explain what happened with that book, and why you won't be seeing it...yet. I have a new novel ready to pop out, and then I have to get to Hummingbird II. Lots of writing ahead. Lots of travel. Lots of appearances. Lots of grumbling, moaning, bitching, whining, complaining. So I don't know how well I can keep up the "I. Monday" project, but even if we run with it for a summer, we'll get more revealed than the TV and magazines do. And who knows--if it's a success, maybe someone else will run with it.
Don't harden, dear friends--flex! And if you're Duran Duran, re-re-reflex!
Abrazos, L
6/23/2007
Saturday--rain. Nice and cool.
So, this morning, Cindy was googling my name to see if anything new has been written about Hummingbird/Devil's H, etc. Guess what she found, somewhere around p. 5 or 7? There's a big giant collection of incest sites. Uh-huh. Apparently, a listing of father+daughter, as some reviews of Hummigbird have posted, links me to father-daughter-spanking-firstsex-rape websites! Boy, is that a different message than I set out to communicate to the world! Apparently, if you cycle through these charming areas (I didn't) to the end, you'll find some kind of mention of Hummingbird on an incest blog. Incest blog! Okay, I'm naive, but I didn't know there was an incest blog.
So, just so all my readers can get full benefits from my website, including the freaky pervs, be sure to check those out. I won't be opening them.
As Devo once said, in one of their crabbier moods (wait--all their moods were crabby): "It's a beautiful world--for you. For you. For you. It's not for me."
Even Jesus would put his boot to the asses of those monkey-spanking slugs.
Pray for fire.
L
DeLillo Meditation, Complete
So, this morning, Cindy was googling my name to see if anything new has been written about Hummingbird/Devil's H, etc. Guess what she found, somewhere around p. 5 or 7? There's a big giant collection of incest sites. Uh-huh. Apparently, a listing of father+daughter, as some reviews of Hummigbird have posted, links me to father-daughter-spanking-firstsex-rape websites! Boy, is that a different message than I set out to communicate to the world! Apparently, if you cycle through these charming areas (I didn't) to the end, you'll find some kind of mention of Hummingbird on an incest blog. Incest blog! Okay, I'm naive, but I didn't know there was an incest blog.
So, just so all my readers can get full benefits from my website, including the freaky pervs, be sure to check those out. I won't be opening them.
As Devo once said, in one of their crabbier moods (wait--all their moods were crabby): "It's a beautiful world--for you. For you. For you. It's not for me."
Even Jesus would put his boot to the asses of those monkey-spanking slugs.
Pray for fire.
L
6/20/2007
What I'm Listening To: I've been spending a lot of time lately with my new girlfriend, Amy Winehouse.
Here's the Don DeLillo passage on writing I quoted in part in the last blog. When asked by David Remnick about the influence of museums and art on him as a young artist, he repsonds that the influence is almost metaphysical. He's so right. I know my bus rides to the San Diego art museums and Zoo and library with my long-suffering mom were nearly occult in their possessive powers over me. The first time I saw a Dali changed me forever. Even worse when I actually saw Dali himself! Dali was the art! Oh, man--I was gone. DeLillo:
#
I think fiction comes from everything you've ever done, and said, and dreamed, and imagined. It comes from everyhting you've read, and haven't read. It comes from all the things that are in the air. At some point, you begin to write sentences and paragraphs that don't sound like other writers'. And for me, the crux of the whole matter is language, and the language a writer eventually develops. If you're talking about Hemingway, the Hemingway sentence is what makes Hemingway. It's not the bullfights, or the safaris or the wars, it's a clear, direct, and vigorous sentence...I think my work comes from out of the culture of the world around me. I think that's where my language comes from. That's where my themes come from. I don't think it comes from othe rpeople. One's personality and vision are shaped by other writers, by movies, by paintings, by music. But the work itself, you know--sentence by sentence, page by page--it's much too intimate, much too private, to come from anywhere but deep within the writer himself. It comes out of all the time a writer wastes. We stand around, look out the window, walk down the hall, come back to the page, and, in those intervals, something subterranean is forming, a literal dream that comes out of daydreaming. It's too deep to be attributed to clear sources.
Post Father's Day Writing & A Meditation
Here's the Don DeLillo passage on writing I quoted in part in the last blog. When asked by David Remnick about the influence of museums and art on him as a young artist, he repsonds that the influence is almost metaphysical. He's so right. I know my bus rides to the San Diego art museums and Zoo and library with my long-suffering mom were nearly occult in their possessive powers over me. The first time I saw a Dali changed me forever. Even worse when I actually saw Dali himself! Dali was the art! Oh, man--I was gone. DeLillo:
#
I think fiction comes from everything you've ever done, and said, and dreamed, and imagined. It comes from everyhting you've read, and haven't read. It comes from all the things that are in the air. At some point, you begin to write sentences and paragraphs that don't sound like other writers'. And for me, the crux of the whole matter is language, and the language a writer eventually develops. If you're talking about Hemingway, the Hemingway sentence is what makes Hemingway. It's not the bullfights, or the safaris or the wars, it's a clear, direct, and vigorous sentence...I think my work comes from out of the culture of the world around me. I think that's where my language comes from. That's where my themes come from. I don't think it comes from othe rpeople. One's personality and vision are shaped by other writers, by movies, by paintings, by music. But the work itself, you know--sentence by sentence, page by page--it's much too intimate, much too private, to come from anywhere but deep within the writer himself. It comes out of all the time a writer wastes. We stand around, look out the window, walk down the hall, come back to the page, and, in those intervals, something subterranean is forming, a literal dream that comes out of daydreaming. It's too deep to be attributed to clear sources.
6/18/2007
Frankie, Grace, Clarke, Prudence, Cheryl, Janna, Cousin Dave, White Eagle, Poage, Juan Sanchez, Maria, Cinder, Olivas, Red Charlie, Bonn-Dawg, Esteban, Swedish Samurai, enemies, friends, fans, Constant Readers, et al:
I am pouring sweat. It's 90 degrees out here, and humid. Squadrons of shrieking cicadas fly around the treetops looking for love. The dogs are passed out on the floor, sticking to the wood like pancakes. And I am like Elmer Fudd, muttering "kill the wabbits, kill the wabbits."
My famous Mother's Day garden I planted for Cinderella was decimated by Mongol rabbits while we were floating around with the fish and singing our lungs out in Sunny Liston's tropical cab on St. Thomas. 1/3 of the garden completely gone--to the dirt. Much of the rest nibbled and mutilated. Like the delphinium--three feet tall and blooming, but without a single leaf on the whole stalk! It looks like some weird Q-Tip. So Cindy, Eric, Megan and the family terrorist, Chayo, did the perfect Father's Day thing, which was to sneak out and buy about a million dollars' worth of new plants for me to remake the garden. As Macho Man Randy Savage used to say before he wrestled: Oohhh YEEEAAAAHHHH!!!
Is sweat holy? I think sweat is holy. Here's a goofy bit of holiness I figured out in high school. One of those revelations that hit a boy's mind and somehow help form the Wen-Fu of his writing forever. I was holding hands with Becky. I was always, or at least every chance I got, holding hands with Becky. And our hands became moist in the California heat. And I was deeply astounded to realize that something of her, and something of me, mixed and made something of us. Whoa, dude. I was freaked out. I wrote a poem about it in my ever-present notebook. It probably seems silly to adults, but it was a ray from heaven to me at fifteen or sixteen.
Miracles are small, man. That's why we miss them so often.
A really good writing book for you who are interested in the Wen-Fu/haikai way of writing I reach for is Wabi Sabi Simple by Richard R. Powell. The cover says: "Create beauty. Value Imperfection. Live deeply." You don't want to write like me, and you really don't want to live like me. But you would get some joy out of this book, and who knows--maybe some poems.
Today's writing thought, from Don DeLillo:
"I think fiction comes from everything you've ever done, and said, and dreamed, and imagined. It comes from everything you've read and haven't read. It comes from all the things that are in the air. At some point, you begin to write sentences and paragraphs that don't sound like other writers'."
More DeLillo tomorrow.
L
Sunday: Writing Church is in Session
I am pouring sweat. It's 90 degrees out here, and humid. Squadrons of shrieking cicadas fly around the treetops looking for love. The dogs are passed out on the floor, sticking to the wood like pancakes. And I am like Elmer Fudd, muttering "kill the wabbits, kill the wabbits."
My famous Mother's Day garden I planted for Cinderella was decimated by Mongol rabbits while we were floating around with the fish and singing our lungs out in Sunny Liston's tropical cab on St. Thomas. 1/3 of the garden completely gone--to the dirt. Much of the rest nibbled and mutilated. Like the delphinium--three feet tall and blooming, but without a single leaf on the whole stalk! It looks like some weird Q-Tip. So Cindy, Eric, Megan and the family terrorist, Chayo, did the perfect Father's Day thing, which was to sneak out and buy about a million dollars' worth of new plants for me to remake the garden. As Macho Man Randy Savage used to say before he wrestled: Oohhh YEEEAAAAHHHH!!!
Is sweat holy? I think sweat is holy. Here's a goofy bit of holiness I figured out in high school. One of those revelations that hit a boy's mind and somehow help form the Wen-Fu of his writing forever. I was holding hands with Becky. I was always, or at least every chance I got, holding hands with Becky. And our hands became moist in the California heat. And I was deeply astounded to realize that something of her, and something of me, mixed and made something of us. Whoa, dude. I was freaked out. I wrote a poem about it in my ever-present notebook. It probably seems silly to adults, but it was a ray from heaven to me at fifteen or sixteen.
Miracles are small, man. That's why we miss them so often.
A really good writing book for you who are interested in the Wen-Fu/haikai way of writing I reach for is Wabi Sabi Simple by Richard R. Powell. The cover says: "Create beauty. Value Imperfection. Live deeply." You don't want to write like me, and you really don't want to live like me. But you would get some joy out of this book, and who knows--maybe some poems.
Today's writing thought, from Don DeLillo:
"I think fiction comes from everything you've ever done, and said, and dreamed, and imagined. It comes from everything you've read and haven't read. It comes from all the things that are in the air. At some point, you begin to write sentences and paragraphs that don't sound like other writers'."
More DeLillo tomorrow.
L
6/16/2007
On Tortola, small island of soca music and iguanas, we went to a small bay that wasn't really very good for snorkeling. The family was disappointed. I walked down the beach and found a pelican sitting on a beach chair. Very still and serene. I said, "Hello." It blinked and watched me. I sat down in the next chair. 2 1/2 feet from the bird. "Nice morning," I said. It turned and looked out at the water. Later, as I sat on the sand, the pelican wandered over and settled in near me. We watched the bathers and the boats. We got in the water. The pelican bobbed around like a paper boat in the clear Caribbean wavelets. I couldn't believe it. Sure, I wasn't seeing any shipwrecks or eels or barracudas or "Nemo" fish. But I was floating around with this unbelievably mellow pelican. Let's face it--I think it was stoned. I think some of that local ganja got to the pelican, because it blinked very slowly and looked like it wanted to laugh. Or maybe that was just me--wanting to laugh. I didn't even feel too jealous when the New York tourists found the big bird and started snapping pictures of it as it floated by like a small pirate ship. Cinderella got us some rum drinks. I did laugh when the Snapshot-Dad got pinched by a white crab he was harrassing. The beach master, a handsome man in dreads, said, "How you doin'? You all right, mon?" I tipped my rum-bomb at him and smiled. "I don't turn dark in this sun," he told us all, holding up an arm the color of 3:00 a.m. "I turn white!" He went off to make sure his lounge chairs were being rented. That was the world, and that was all the writing in the world for that day. Here's Franz Kafka on my pelican:
"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice. It will roll in cstacy at your feet."
It has no choice. Neither do I.
Glad to be home with you.
L
I'm BAAAACK in the Saddle Again!
"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice. It will roll in cstacy at your feet."
It has no choice. Neither do I.
Glad to be home with you.
L
6/15/2007
Home. I can't get the ship in my head to stop rocking. The floors move. We were out there snorkeling. Fish. Virgin Islands. Anybody been to St. Thomas? Did you hang out with crazy Sunny Liston, the tropical cab man? Now I'm here, trying to get my mind organized. I'll post stuff soon. As soon as the keyboard doesn't seem to be floating away on the high tide.
Damned rabbits. Ate my garden whil we were gone. Hate...rabbits! Must...destroy...rabbits! Where are all the barracudas when you need them? I'll sprinkle coyote pee or something on the tattered remains of my poor flowers....
Still looking for cicadas, though one did watch tv with me this morning.
L
Damned rabbits. Ate my garden whil we were gone. Hate...rabbits! Must...destroy...rabbits! Where are all the barracudas when you need them? I'll sprinkle coyote pee or something on the tattered remains of my poor flowers....
Still looking for cicadas, though one did watch tv with me this morning.
L
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