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Wednesday, February 5, 2014

NANCY SAYS:, I CAN'T FOLLOW YOU.. YOUR STORIES LEAP ABOUT... THE CURE? EDITOR 666 HAS ARRIVED





FORGETTING THE NIGHT BEFORE


         I  feel as if I'm hungover, but that can't be possible,
can it?
         I used to have just about every bad habit you can name,
but now I'm older and wiser. OR wiser because I'm older.
But his doesn't prevent me from behaving repeatedly
like a crazed slathering fool , sniffing after the remains
of the cake at  a toxic birthday party.
        
         
         I've gotten out of the habit of writing each morning.
This is strange because writing is an activity I really
enjoy.  Editing...not so much. So...not so much editing!
         
         BUT:

Editor 666 has made it down from the Arctic,
and I've given him a room... we'll see if this works out.
He's not the type of guy who understands the word,
'compromise'. Reasonable discussion, he cannot engage.
          And his table manners are atrocious!
          But apparently I need him.

      
         So here goes:
   
          Thank God that the Christmas season is over!
(The season of the mushroom man, old Saint Nick
under the pine trees preparing the winter's
harvest..)
        I tend to go into a real nosedive with the weight of the solstice approaching. A Bob Dylan line comes to mind: "a trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field."  Those pre-
 solstice days make me feel that way - bogged down... in a magnetic field...
        
Editor 666:  "LIGHTEN UP! You son-of-a-bitch!  I'm not reading you so I can been dragged down into a sub-oceanic trough of morbidity and terminal  mind-warping depression!
I'm already depressed out of my mind, and out of all remedy! 
               After my five month stay with the Mad Poet of Rat River.Hell! Most people would go through a psychotic
breakdown!
         
       I don't remember drinking last night, but I slept
on stage behind my amplifiers, and that's not usually
a good sign.
         I seem to remember someone handing me a pewter
stein of hog-wrestling-strength moonshine. I knew what it was
because I could see the little wavy lines above the surface
of the drink, even in the lights above the stage. That usually means it's really evil shit - just
what I like...a drink so strong it'll curl your hair, or your
toes, or both at the same time! A drink that'll hit you
hard front-on, straight-up, then circle around and bite you
in the ass! 

Ed.666: "You're really pushing it...And you're boring me!"

Me:         "O.K. This is going to get ugly. For one thing, an editor is supposed to edit, not insert his opinion into the text
every 200 words!"
 
                     The problem is, the prick is one of the best
editors alive today. I just have to find a comfortable
place for him (comfortable for me)  like a heavy cement-
walled basement with a vault door, locked from the
outside.

                    Now, I know the Mad Poet of Rat River, and
I'm aware of the utter disaster his cabin was in.
I know he couldn't find most of his own writings...
and he wrote all the time... so you figure it out.
Ratty has some kind of complex... I do not even
want to speculate.
         So we called Editor 666.

         Editor 666 was caught in some 
bowel-wrenching
scandal in New York City, some company
involved with the New York Times -
he was caught in an embarrassing situation
with a director's wife. In fact he drove
her car into the hotel pool.
       So he wasn't going to
be a manager any more...!
          I hear he was caught in some pink Tutu...

Editor666: "That simply was not true."
           
            Not true, eh?  What was that pink
thing wrapped three times around your neck?

Ed666: "I thin it's called a feather boah.
         
             You think! You know what it was.
You haven't had a moment of uncertainty
in print in the last ten years!

















                       I just got back from two weeks in the Big Smoke. (that's Toronto for those of you across the seas.)
           I'm back now but the trip was nerve-wracking.
     I used to make the trip every week, when I was performing,
but I can see now I'm relying on habit to keep myself 
between the white lines, both mentally and physically.
          So now I must have routine. Routine can be very helpful - to keep myself from going bat-shit and running naked across people's back yards, at 3:00 A. M under a full moon, all the while howling out a Rastaferian chant I happen to know. And beating a drum.
           
          Nope, none of this
           No obvious displays of absurdity... this is
the pattern I'll follow. This is the plan.
       
           Every time I start to write, well... most times... I have
a big doubt that I can do it. I have the Fear to face the virgin page.
        
         My sister, Nancy, told me she had trouble following me
in some of my stories.
        I said: "I'm often drinking when I write the articles..."

       And, I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this
story...so if you're having difficulty following my thought -
it's understandable. Maybe there is no thought; or perhaps
a glimmer is growing in the vast world down below -
in the huge and vast darkness within, unconscious regions.
far below, deeper than any ocean's floor.
          ((You can travel in that darkness.))
         
       Bukowski's advice was, "Don't try."
 In October 1963, Bukowski recounted in a letter  how someone once asked him, “What do you do? How do you write, create?” To which, he replied: “You don’t try. That’s very important: ‘not’ to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

                                        I'll take that advice.
                 
                   The vast  ocean within - the storm
on which we ride...light years of darkness.
                  You can travel in this darkness.
Without taking a step, you can travel  far.
You can go very far indeed.
                   But...

                   A certain calm is required. 
                   And I've just had some kind
of panic attack that I was out of wine.
A real, panting, hard=breathing, ass-kicking
attack of nerves. I turned the whole fucking place
upside down, armchairs included. In about 3 minutes.
                   It's ironic
that I should be writing about inner travel exactly
now.   But this contradiction doesn't matter.
We've got a journey to take and now the train
has fuel!

     'DO I CONTRADICT MYSELF? VERY WELL,
I CONTRADICT MYSELF.  I AM LARGE,
I CONTAIN MULTITUDES."       Walt Whitman 
indeed.

       All I can say, Nancy, is you may not  know how rough
I feel these mornings. Rough. I mean really rough... Hands shaking, belly swelling with what I hope is gas... Apparently my LIVER is fine.

        So I write down any sentence - just to start
the flow... and to see where these words will
take us... in our travels through the Mind,
our  journey through unspeakable depths. 
                Any sentence can open the door in the wall.

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