27 November 2007

Last Chance!

I am admitting defeat.

Not only has it been over a week since my last post here, it has been weeks since my last post on Ranting Rev. Not that there's so little to say but life has gotten so busy - yes there is life outside of blog writing and reading - that I can only keep up with so much.

I will keep this one going, but the other two will be deleted by the end of the week.

On the good news front, I am slogging away at what has potential for a book length project. Truth be told, that's where my energy is right now, when I have the time to focus on it. hence my light posting even on this journal.

I notice that blogging itself is changing, when I have time to notice. I suspect it's "fifteen minutes" are more than half done. Video is the new medium, and that's more than I can or care to accomplish.

Funny, how paper, dreary old paper, may outlast them all. It is more durable than CDs or floppies and can be enjoyed without screens or even electricity.

Life is as much about the no's as the yes's. Saying no to a blog or two seems the right thing right now. Do stay with me on this one, you select few who drop in from time to time. I'll let my dreams of blogofame fade away and turn to the pedestrian ways of the printed word again.

18 November 2007

It's Giblets All The Way Down

Well, here we are at the gateway to The Season. Don’t even have to name it.

… ‘Tis the season to be jolly.
… ‘Season’s Greetings.’
… ‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year”

So why am I not jolly and feeling wonderful?

Perhaps it is the arrival of the cold, and with it the gray skies that are so much a part of this hunk of the planet. Maybe it is the immensity of the work required to have all that fun. Could it be that sputtering stock markets and turbulent oil prices and diffident dictators and truculent nations and arrogant presidents are unmitigated despite all the tinsel?

This year I sense that The Season is more delusional than usual, a frantic attempt to ignore the grim reality we share. If this was something implacable, like winter, it would make some sense. Defying the gods is an old and honorable custom. But most of what afflicts us is self administered. The answer to our woes is us, not the gods or their vicars called princes and presidents.

One other thing.

Come January the earnest race for president begins. And despite every reason to think my party shall prevail I feel little enthusiasm for the top contenders, and downright unhappy with the leader. After eight years of the worst president ever to occupy the office I had hoped for something better than this.

James Buchanan is widely regarded as the worst to occupy the office, helping the Civil War get started. He was succeeded by Abraham Lincoln, conceivably the best occupant. If 43 is nearly as bad as Buchanan, arguably worse, show me the Lincoln that should be rising.

We have two candidates from Illinois, it turns out. I think the current leader is more Douglas than Lincoln. Whether the other is Lincoln I cannot say. Sure wish I could.

11 November 2007

Adandoning Fear Not Hope

I am making friend with anger these days. Part of it is political. I read somewhere that the populace has never been more angry, according to some poll. I am so angry that that the very idea of polling for it makes me shudder with rage.

The fact is, political anger is just the Rorschach for something much deeper and older. It seems I have a very long diatribe in me that goes way back. That’s what has been inhibiting my literary ambitions. Keeping it under wraps so as not to hurt others has kept lots of things below the surface, it seems.

Releasing it would mean letting a lifetime of rage boil out like lava all over the place. Or so I have thought. But what if that’s where the power and the urgency lie? To write in denial of it would be a deception, mostly of myself but also of everyone else.

A member and therapist remarked in a discussion last year that even if the Buddhist ideal of extinguishing the ego is right, there must first be an ego to extinguish. In a sense, a Freudian sense at least, my enormous superego that is determined to do right is that size because of my enormous id which is determined to have its way. That leaves a very small space in between for an ego.

I gotta get me an ago, and the first step is putting a stopper in the mouth of Mr. Nice Guy. What has poured onto my pages of late has been rather shocking. Not for public view, I assure you. And there are those other people out there. That’s real.

But oddly enough instead of depressing me it has been exhilirating. Maybe it will get out of hand, but this demon of rage I have feared so often may turn out to be a great friend and ally. I’ll keep you posted.

04 November 2007

More Apologies

Once again a long time has passed. Something is changing in the way I think and write. As I have dipped my foot into the challenge of a book, not only has it proved more complex intellectually it has proved itself more fraught emotionally. Well insulated areas of the mind have gotten frayed and so biography now bleeds into theology, psychology into epistemology, and so on.

This is good, meaning it feels right. But it is also very hard and some of the results are not ‘ready for prime time.’ When you summon the muse you can also get demons. They may be the same thing. I thought what I had to say was the same as what you need to hear. They overlap, but do not coincide.

So bear with me as I say a little less here and spend more time there. This must be the right thing as I wake up thinking about this tome and find it on my mind when it should be on other things. Some clarity about its shape and voice are emerging, but for me creation is a childbirth, getting harder the closer it gets and downright wrenching at the end.

And it’s not a pretty picture.

Gotta give blood today. I make my first gallon since being in GR. Not counting the symbolic pints spilled elsewhere and more frequently.

See ya!