thought dream 020309.2

I'm thinking about writing something about
thinking about writing something. I'm thinking
about thinking, thinking about writing, thinking

about thinking and writing and how they relate.
I'm thinking a lot. Am I thinking? I don't know.
Sometimes I'm not even sure I'm breathing.

Sometimes, when I'm meditating, and I'm
following my breathing, I start thinking about
meditating, and then I start thinking about

my breathing, and my breathing gets
messed up, and then I'm no longer meditating
and following my breathing. I'm just thinking

about meditating. How did I even start thinking
about that? I was thinking about writing
something about thinking and writing, and,

suddenly, I'm thinking about something else.
Like now, when I suddenly start thinking
about Fats Waller, probably because I'm

listening to Fats Waller in the background
while I'm writing. (I've started writing now.
Am I still thinking about writing?) Fats is

singing "Honeysuckle Rose" in 1934, and
playing piano, and I'm thinking about Fats
singing and playing "Honeysuckle Rose,"

and I'm thinking that he probably wasn't thinking
much, if at all, about singing and playing while
he was singing and playing. And I'm thinking

about writing something about Fats Waller
singing and playing and how it relates to thinking
and writing and thinking about writing. But now

that I'm writing about Fats Waller and thinking
and writing, I wonder if I'm actually thinking
about writing while I'm writing about thinking,

or am I just writing? I seem to be thinking and
writing at the same time, or thinking about
writing a millisecond ahead of writing about

thinking, thinking about a word and then
writing the word, so that by the time I start
writing the word, I'm already thinking about

the next word and thinking about writing the
next word, and then writing the next word,
ad infinitum, until I stop thinking anymore

about writing about thinking about writing,
or thinking about anything, or maybe
thinking about something completely unrelated

to writing, at which point, I stop writing.
Come over here, little Honeysuckle Rose,
and let me show you who's your Sugar Daddy.

thought dreams and new directions

Portrait prémonitoire de Guillaume Apollinaire (Premonitory Portrait of Guillaume Apollinaire). Giorgio de Chirico, 1914.

A new year has started, and I've been in a reflective mood lately, wondering what I'm actually doing in/with my life.

Part of that has means mulling over what I'm doing - and not doing - with ZONE. After blogging for almost two and half years (hard to believe), I'm still not comfortable with the process or the results.

The name ZONE comes from the title of a long poem by French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, and the first post on the blog was "A Word from Guillaume." The subtitle of ZONE is "improvisations on literature, music, film. . ." Yet there has been very little literature on my blog. Mostly because there's been very little literature in my life.

Somewhere back down the road, I burned out on "literature." For 25 years or so, I had tried my best to live "the writer's life," which meant writing all the time, devouring literature constantly, editing literary journals, and participating to one degree or another in the poetry scenes of various cities. And, most importantly, living in an open and creative manner.

Then, suddenly, it just stopped.

For a while, I blamed too many bad submissions and dull poetry readings for making me jaded. Having to read or listen to a lot of crappy, self-indulgent "creative work" can do that. Especially when some of it's your own. The whole process seemed pointless and terribly narcissistic.

Luckily, I've been able to meet some excellent and genuinely creative writers whose work I really enjoy. Interestingly, the only "literature" I've been able to stomach during during this time has been that of my friends. Otherwise, I think I've finished one novel in the last three years, and only cracked open a few books of poetry. I write very little beyond the bits and pieces on this blog, and my journal, which I used to keep regularly, has gaps of several months.

So . . . what happens when the thing on which you've based most of your life suddenly vanishes?

And what if that thing was deeply intertwined with your spiritual journey? Or was the spiritual journey?

A time in the desert, one might say. Actually, that's not true. Having spent a lot of time in the deserts of the American West, I can tell you that a desert is filled with much more beauty, excitement and life. My experience has been more like sitting in the dark on the floor of a closet for two years. Just nothing happening.

(Except then there's not floor to the closet. You just have to learn how to stay afloat.)

In the end, it's not about "literature." It's not the endless mediocre submissions I had to read for Terra Incognita, or poets reciting dull, lifeless work. It's me. I've been struggling with a profound emptiness that lies within myself.

We have met the black hole, and it is us.

(And I wonder why blogging doesn't satisfy!)

What does all of this mean for ZONE? I'm not sure. But I think I'm going to try some new things this year.

Bob Dylan, circa 1965.

When I was younger, I used to write spontaneous pieces/poems on a regular basis, just as a warm-up exercise, or a way to let out whatever needed to come out. I called these "thought dreams," after one of my favorites lines from Bob Dylan: "And if my thought-dreams could be seen / They'd probably put my head in a guillotine / But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only."

Perhaps going back to my "thought dreams" will help prime the pump of a well that's been dry, dry, dry. I hate to inflict the world at large with these pieces, many of which can be downright awful. But my desire to jolt the blog into some new directions - and my own need to publicly express/embarrass myself - makes me want to give it a try.

Also, I've been inspired by Steve Caratzas at The Blog of Lewd Enlightenment, who's been publishing a poem a day for over four years now. Quite an accomplishment. Especially for someone like me who can't even raise a flabby, atrophied arm to the poetic page more than a few times a year.

I'm not going to try and duplicate Steve's heroic effort. I'd like to knock out a few of these a week, if at all possible. And even that may feel like too much. But I want to do something different, head in some new directions.

Don't worry - ZONE is not going to become all bad poetry from a perplexed, dried up writer. I'll continue with the other things I've been doing as well. And hopefully get back to doing more film reviews.

We'll see what happens. I need to open some new doors. Head down some new paths. That's really what I really wanted ZONE to be about.

That's what I still want my life to be about.

(Below this post, my first attempt at reviving the thought dreams...)

ZONE - Year One

I just realized this afternoon that I've been blogging for over a year now. My first post was dated August 29, 2006. (No one left a comment. . . . It's so cold out in cyberspace sometimes.)

At the time, I thought I would write about all kinds of things, and came up with the ambitious subtitle: "improvisations on literature : music : film : the spiritual : the political : the ridiculous." Looking back over the previous year, I see very little about literature, some on music, a lot on film, not much about the spiritual, some on the political and . . . well, the whole thing is rather "ridiculous," isn't it?

It's strange that I haven't written much on literature and spirituality, considering that these have been the two most important journeys of my life. Maybe, to quote 10CC, "it's just a silly phase I'm going through."

Maybe not. It's been a while since I've finished a novel. I read a bit of poetry here and there, but not nearly as much as I used to. Haven't been writing much of my own work. I do, however, have a poetry reading coming up this Sunday in Manhattan, with jazz musicians (!) - a longtime dream fulfilled. I'm looking forward to that. I even managed to come up with a new piece. But, all in all, literature seems to have fallen off my radar a bit. Perhaps I burned out after spending most of my energy over the previous seven years editing an international bilingual literary magazine, putting readings together, translating, writing grants, hosting events, etc. Je ne sais pas.

It's not like blogging has been easy and caused me to forsake the sweat and toil of poetry. I still find this the hardest writing I've ever done in some ways. My respect for good journalists, bloggers, and film reviewers has gone up immensely in the last year.

Anyway, just some musings. . . .

I have no idea idea where this blogging thing will go. I'm still struggling to find a certain voice in this somewhat strange format that demands both immediacy and thoughtfulness at the same time. My Dada Iraq post may have been the closest I've come to how I imagined this project. But that's life, no? Instead, I wind up writing weird reviews about obscure William Holden films. I didn't see that one coming.

The best part has been meeting and/or conversing with other people in the wide open spaces of our digital universe. My gift on this one-year blogging anniversary is all of you who've taken the time to read my posts and comment on them here or elsewhere. So thanks, Liam, Jeff, Crystal, Schertzer, Steve, Paul, Lawrence, and everyone else.

And most of all, to my muse (musette?) - Alexandra. La Reina de mi vida.

Meanwhile, here's a very profound and introspective song from my childhood to celebrate ONE. (OMG, I want those pants!)

Onward through the fog . . . .

Guillaume le fou