He must be off his Thorazine again

This blows my freakin' mind.

I know he had little effect in '04, but still . . .

How delusional can he be to take even the slightest chance at ruining things for the Democrats in November? He still won't admit that he is responsible for the existence of the Bush administration.

Tar and feathers, anyone?

Behind the Wheel

In my unconscious, there is a kind of Wheel of Interests/Influences; now and then, new elements are added, but for the most part they remain the same. There's Buddhism (Zen and Tibetan), Jungian stuff, Joseph Campbell, Catholicism/Christianity, Sufism, Existentialism, a hodge podge of other philosophies, Poetry (which is subdivided into various categories), Fiction (ditto), Painting, Comics/Graphic Novels/Cartooning, and Ingmar Bergman . . . among others. I never know where the Wheel will stop on any given day. Some days, Rilke is soooo important; other days, not so much.

So, right now the Beats are back on my psychic stage, in particular Kerouac and (to a lesser extent) Ginsberg. These writers are among the oldest occupants of the Wheel; Kerouac is one of my earliest writerly influences, along with Henry Miller. (Don't get me started on Miller. He and Nin are prominent residents of the Wheel, as well.) I return to Kerouac and Ginsberg from time to time, because I don't feel I've ever quite assimilated whatever it is I need from that kind of writing: the openness, the generosity of spirit, the mystic Romanticism, and most of all the liveliness.

And I've also found Kerouac's missionary zeal to be an inspiration. Somehow, between road trips and drinking binges, he worked his ass off. I need to spend more time locked in the bathroom with Shakespeare and the Bible.

Anyway. There was a time when writers were still passionate and idealistic about writing. I like to stand by their fire, even if it is 50 years old. They are major writers, no matter what some critics say. Long may they haunt me.

***

In other news, I've only heard from one Ph.D. program so far, but I'm 1-for-1 ! So, at least now I know there's at least one option for me this fall.

You Know You're Regressing When . . .

You rent The Greatest American Hero from Netflix.

And you like it.




In my defense, I also watched a French (or German or some kind of European) documentary about Lee Miller, and another documentary about Picasso and Rothko. So I am still sophisticated.


Now, I wonder if season 1 of The A-Team is available . . .

It's a Drag When . . .

. . . you have a blog but you can't think of anything good to say.

I wanted to say some stuff about Hart Crane. How tragic it is that his version of modernism wasn't more successful. Instead, we got the William Carlos Williams version.

But my brain just isn't having anything to do with me today.

Blah.

Like a Dream of a World Made of Smoke

It was so foggy while I drove home from Michigan tonight, it was like driving through a Chinese landscape painting.

Except, with paved roads and SUVs.