The book work...

Still spending all of my time working on the book version of this blog. The book is weird. Not your usual poetry all laid out neat and linear, with a table of contents. I do not wish to write a puzzle for people with certain literary skills to put together in their minds. I have learned to play tennis with the net, now I no longer need the net... I wish to learn new variations of my own when it comes to literary styles. To do this, I had to study all kinds of writing, read thousands of books, take class after class tearing apart novels and pulling out the secrets the writers allegedly put in there.

Clarity is more important than craft. Which leads to the problems with the poetry book; it is also telling a story, and some of the poems are more effective with the context of how they were being used by the public, what was going on with the revolt of values that america is now embroiled within... this on going struggle with getting the word out to people about how this shit really works.

Last night was one of those lay there thinking why the hell am I even alive kind of mentalities. Depression is a constant lately. For the last couple months. I am not entirely sure why. THings like this come and go for me. What the hell. TOday is alright.

I started the morn reading int he nty about the millions of years of life lost because a leader in Africa did not act on the science of AIDS, and instead relied on a small cabal of dissident voices who prescribed dum shit that does not work. 38,000 babies were part of the total of people dead. What does one do with such staggering tragedy?

Made me remember a freind of mine, John, who died of aids before all the drugs were available. He was gay and you could tell, and people in Toledo would sometimes give him shit and he would be right there in their faces. I loved the fight in him. We met in AA. He told hardly anyone he had aids. I guess he was afraid of how people would react, or whatever. I only found out when he was gone. THe last time I saw him, he was outside of a small theatre showing the french fllm, au refoir las enfants,... He was all shook up. I was on my in and he told me I would like the film because it was very depressing. That was odd to hear. He was right, of course.

I love that film...

The nook is what I digressed from... I have more work to do than I thought I would. I am going to get some preliminary copies of most of the books next week, and have to have it done by then. I really would rather I had a year or two to do this. There is much I am leaving out. I guess there are two books there, one explaining the experiences I had, and the poetry, which is what I have written, and another explaining all of the circumstances that took place around me.

I am afraid of no man, though time itself scares me. Filling the day with this and that... this is how it feels sometimes to be a writer. YOu wonder if you are really getting anything done at all?














You are welcome to spread my poems by ANY MEANS NECESSARY.
http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com

http://thereligiouspsychokillershitlist.blogspot.com

HTTP://generalfactorx.blogspot.com

http://secretposse.com

There is some overlap... but they are all different.