Finally.
Damn fine coffee.
23 August 2007
But I Hope They Don't Publish Burroughs
The imminent publication of this book makes me happy. He belongs with the greats.
22 August 2007
But Some Thunder
I'm still not finished thinking about the whole 'mystical/non-mystical' divide. (I guess I never will be.) In his book of interviews, Breaking the Alabaster Jar, Lee refers to this division as vertical/horizontal. (He didn't invent these terms, but he makes good use of them.) "Vertical" is associated with spiritual 'ascent' (or, I suppose, "descent"). "Horizontal" is associated with 'worldly' life.
Lee suggests that poetry is, or should be, more vertical that horizontal. I'm inclined to agree, but the question is, how vertical is too vertical? How horizontal is too horizontal? And is there any way to access the vertical except by means of the horizontal?
I think poetry must use worldly things to communicate even mystical truths. But I also think access to the vertical is essential in order for a poet to have any kind of vision and psychic presence. In general, what usually interests me about a poem, and a poet, is the vision behind the poetry. Or, more accurately, the degree to which a strong, vivid psyche animates the poetry, resulting in a compelling vision of the world. Much contemporary poetry seems to emanate from rather malnourished and emaciated psyches, and there's not much vision of anything, except maybe poetry itself. Most poems wheeze. But some thunder.
Interestingly, in the midst of all this deep thinking about poetry, my psychic pendulum has begun to swing a little bit over toward the fiction side again. A fiction writer with whom I am acquainted e-mailed me a revision of one of her stories, and that was enough to set off my inner fiction writer again. Honestly, my psyche is like a mine field that way; any mention of poetry or fiction or a variety of other perennial interests of mine is enough to get me all geeked up on that subject. These interests just lurk there, waiting to be provoked. And then I go buy stuff on Amazon. Time to put down Ariel and buy The Bell Jar!
(Semi-relevant side note: In Tibetan Buddhism, there's an idea that a really advanced meditation master has the ability to store teachings, for use in the distant future, in a sort of collective mental dimension. These teachings, called terma, can then be retrieved from this communal psychic space by later mystics who retrieve these texts in a kind of meditative trance state. So, a yogi from the 14th century can preserve a mental text in this psychic storage area with a kind of time-lock, so that it bubbles up in the 21st century and someone writes it down.
I don't know who put "poetry" and "fiction" in my unconscious, but they keep bubbling up nonetheless!)
Anyway, the goal, I suppose, is to write right at the point at which the vertical and the horizontal intersect. Wholeness! It's harder in fiction, I think, because fiction requires so much horizontal detail and event. But, as Lee notes, Faulkner and Melville (among others) achieve the vertical, or at least the poetic, by means of their language. So there's hope for poets who want to write fiction. (I don't know about Melville, but Faulkner began as a poet—influenced by Swinburne, no less!)
O, the writing life. At least it pays well.
Lee suggests that poetry is, or should be, more vertical that horizontal. I'm inclined to agree, but the question is, how vertical is too vertical? How horizontal is too horizontal? And is there any way to access the vertical except by means of the horizontal?
I think poetry must use worldly things to communicate even mystical truths. But I also think access to the vertical is essential in order for a poet to have any kind of vision and psychic presence. In general, what usually interests me about a poem, and a poet, is the vision behind the poetry. Or, more accurately, the degree to which a strong, vivid psyche animates the poetry, resulting in a compelling vision of the world. Much contemporary poetry seems to emanate from rather malnourished and emaciated psyches, and there's not much vision of anything, except maybe poetry itself. Most poems wheeze. But some thunder.
Interestingly, in the midst of all this deep thinking about poetry, my psychic pendulum has begun to swing a little bit over toward the fiction side again. A fiction writer with whom I am acquainted e-mailed me a revision of one of her stories, and that was enough to set off my inner fiction writer again. Honestly, my psyche is like a mine field that way; any mention of poetry or fiction or a variety of other perennial interests of mine is enough to get me all geeked up on that subject. These interests just lurk there, waiting to be provoked. And then I go buy stuff on Amazon. Time to put down Ariel and buy The Bell Jar!
(Semi-relevant side note: In Tibetan Buddhism, there's an idea that a really advanced meditation master has the ability to store teachings, for use in the distant future, in a sort of collective mental dimension. These teachings, called terma, can then be retrieved from this communal psychic space by later mystics who retrieve these texts in a kind of meditative trance state. So, a yogi from the 14th century can preserve a mental text in this psychic storage area with a kind of time-lock, so that it bubbles up in the 21st century and someone writes it down.
I don't know who put "poetry" and "fiction" in my unconscious, but they keep bubbling up nonetheless!)
Anyway, the goal, I suppose, is to write right at the point at which the vertical and the horizontal intersect. Wholeness! It's harder in fiction, I think, because fiction requires so much horizontal detail and event. But, as Lee notes, Faulkner and Melville (among others) achieve the vertical, or at least the poetic, by means of their language. So there's hope for poets who want to write fiction. (I don't know about Melville, but Faulkner began as a poet—influenced by Swinburne, no less!)
O, the writing life. At least it pays well.
12 August 2007
Any Mention of "Universe Mind" Makes Me Happy
I'm still in the process of unpacking, but it's already clear that I have nowhere near enough room for all my books. So I have to decide which ones are beloved enough to bring to my current residence, and which ones are (temporarily) damned to the storage unit.
It's very frustrating, but it's also interesting because it forces me to determine what's most important to me right now. For one thing, after another of my periodic flirtations with fiction earlier this summer, I find that the pendulum has swung back over to poetry again. So I'm trying to bring in as many poetry-related books as space will allow.
Also, I seem to finally feel the need to really, truly dig into mythology. For a quasi-neo-Jungian such as myself, I really am not nearly as familiar with mythology as I should be. So all the myth books have to come out of storage. I believe that myth is the key for my current and future poetry — though in what way, I haven't quite figured out yet. So I've got to really delve into this stuff. (I must face the sobering truth that, sadly, renting old episodes of Hercules and Xena from Netflix will just not be enough anymore.)
In general, I'm feeling a need to get back to the things that are really important to me — all the mystical, mythopoeic visions and ideas which seem to me sadly neglected in the current literary climate. In my analysis, this is the most important difference or division affecting contemporary literary/aesthetic judgment — the "non-spiritual/spiritual" or "non-mystical/mystical" divide.
It seems to me that much of the academic literary world seems to fall overwhelmingly on the "non-spiritual" side. And so I am faced with the likelihood that, even if I were to succeed in writing the sort of poetry I have in mind, it might never find a receptive audience. On the other hand, I've been reading Li-Young Lee's recent book of interviews. All his references to "big mind" and "universe mind" make me feel somewhat more hopeful, because many people who read poetry these days seem to like Lee's work. You go, Li-Young! The question is, do people gravitate to Lee's work because they like his mystic sensibility, or do they merely tolerate all his crazy talk because they like his poems about childhood?
I guess it's good to have a sense of purpose, even if it damns me to cultural obscurity and obsolescence. There are ideas that truly matter to me and cast meaning upon my life, and that's more than a lot of people can say in this post-modern, post-structural, post-sanity culture.
May the Force be with you, and s**t.
07 August 2007
(Slightly) Better Than Hemlock
And so begins what my future biographers (if everyone else dies and there is no one else left about whom to write biographies) will label "the lost year."
Socrates chose death rather than exile from Athens. I liked Bowling Green well enough, but I'm still choosing exile in Toledo over hemlock. (For now.)
I'll try to think positively. My Itty Bitty Booklight and I will accomplish great things in the next year!
In other news, let me say that I am extremely heartened by the degree of press coverage given to Ingmar Bergman recently. More specifically, I'm (pleasantly) surprised that so many people know -- and care -- who he is. (And, yes, I deliberately used the present tense "is.") A lot of people seem genuinely saddened by the loss. It is no wonder: Bergman's films cleanse and refresh the soul.
Antonioni, I don't care for so much.
Back to the real world, 2007-style: This pleases me. However, what the Thai authorities fail to realize is that there is an easy counter-measure to the shame-producing armbands. The shame could easily be neutralized if the officers were to wear Underoos under their uniforms. All life's problems are less weighty if one is wearing Batman underwear.
Take it from me.
Socrates chose death rather than exile from Athens. I liked Bowling Green well enough, but I'm still choosing exile in Toledo over hemlock. (For now.)
I'll try to think positively. My Itty Bitty Booklight and I will accomplish great things in the next year!
In other news, let me say that I am extremely heartened by the degree of press coverage given to Ingmar Bergman recently. More specifically, I'm (pleasantly) surprised that so many people know -- and care -- who he is. (And, yes, I deliberately used the present tense "is.") A lot of people seem genuinely saddened by the loss. It is no wonder: Bergman's films cleanse and refresh the soul.
Antonioni, I don't care for so much.
Back to the real world, 2007-style: This pleases me. However, what the Thai authorities fail to realize is that there is an easy counter-measure to the shame-producing armbands. The shame could easily be neutralized if the officers were to wear Underoos under their uniforms. All life's problems are less weighty if one is wearing Batman underwear.
Take it from me.
02 August 2007
All Good Things, Etc., Etc.
Well, this is my last night in my Bowling Green apartment, so even though I should be finishing my packing, I feel I should commemorate the evening with a post.
My first thought is, "It feels like only yesterday I rented this place, and now it's time to go." (It's a clichéd first thought, but there you have it.)
My next thought is, "Damn! I have a lot of books!" 23 boxes full of them so far, and the end is not yet near. I have to admit that, though it's true my bibliophile acquisitiveness has created quite a burden right now, the other 51 weeks of the year when I'm not moving are made more pleasant by all my treasures.
Some Buddhist I am.
I've spent the summer intensely resisting the awareness that all this is ending and it's time to go. But now I'm finally beginning to enter the "acceptance" stage.
Fear not (if, in fact, anyone is reading this): future posts will be much more pithy and high-minded. But now is my time to lament.
My first thought is, "It feels like only yesterday I rented this place, and now it's time to go." (It's a clichéd first thought, but there you have it.)
My next thought is, "Damn! I have a lot of books!" 23 boxes full of them so far, and the end is not yet near. I have to admit that, though it's true my bibliophile acquisitiveness has created quite a burden right now, the other 51 weeks of the year when I'm not moving are made more pleasant by all my treasures.
Some Buddhist I am.
I've spent the summer intensely resisting the awareness that all this is ending and it's time to go. But now I'm finally beginning to enter the "acceptance" stage.
Fear not (if, in fact, anyone is reading this): future posts will be much more pithy and high-minded. But now is my time to lament.
01 August 2007
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