WET DAYS, DRY CAMELS, AND WRITING

I removed my most recent post solely because I didn't like it. 
Sometimes I say so much of nothing that I annoy myself. I didn't delete it - I reverted it to a draft and kept the comments (Myra, Paula, LadyHawthorne).

It's pouring rain. Again. And again and again....Once in awhile I Google pictures of the sun just to remember what it looks like. That was lame, but I'm not in a funny mood.

I'm considering moving to Saudi Arabia. Sure, they get occasional rain but I've never seen a wet camel.....and I've never seen fifteen-foot-high weeds in the Rub al Khali (like they are in my yard).

I'm used to dust storms and Haboobs. Heck, I lived in West Texas.
And I feel comfortable in sheik garb.

Don't laugh. I'm an old man. I looked a helluva lot better twenty years ago. Okay, maybe forty.
By the way, I'm the one on the right.

Remember that children's book I wrote last autumn? I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. Last night I re-read it and it's surprisingly good. I'm sending it to some publishers.

I just started writing the book about the 1906 murder in New Jersey and my great-uncle who was hanged for the crime (mentioned in one of my previous posts).
I researched that story for several years, published an article on it, and have a surplus of information. Yet, I'm still finding new information that I never knew (via the Internet). I'm amazed.

After careful consideration and major trepidation, I'm also finally writing my memoirs. 
I used to jokingly say that I'm the most interesting person I know -  but sometimes I almost believe it.

I figure it's better to write it now before senility sets in - if it hasn't already.

There's a trend with bloggers lately - especially popular bloggers (which I'm very definitely not): 
they're all writing memoirs. I've read some of them on Amazon - and most are blase. Nothing interesting happened in their lives.

I endured one extremely long chapter about a 1963 trip to the drive-in movies. And I read several chapters about a quirky uncle who drank beer while watching Bowling for Dollars in his underwear.
ZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I don't really give a flying fig.

Trouble is - writing truthfully about oneself is extremely difficult. Revealing all is even more difficult. Not to mention humiliating.

My life has definitely been unique. And colorful. There were many incredibly good times, but even many more brutally bad ones - the ravages of which devastated me emotionally. I never fully recovered.

I could easily write two books: my innocent childhood and my recklessly wild adulthood of destruction and debauchery.
I have an incredible memory. I can remember things from when I was only a few months old. 

Well, this blog post turned out to be even longer and more crappy than my previous one was.

It's far too late to quit while I'm ahead. 

MY LIFE AS A BOOK

Why don't you write a book about your life, Jon?

Easier said than done, Kemo Sabe.
I've been a published writer since I was sixteen and have written things in many genres (that's a word I dislike, but I'll use it). I feel reasonably comfortable writing about any subject - - - anything but myself.

It's not always easy to be objective about oneself, or brutally honest, or totally open. As a fiercely private person, I often astonish myself at the things I reveal in this blog. And, trust me, what I reveal is selective and delivered with caution. Usually.

I fully believe that there is a book in everybody, with interesting stories to be told. We're all unique in our own way. We are all only as boring as we choose to be. When we carefully reflect on our lives, it's surprising how many intriguing incidents we can extract.

I initially never thought of myself as being unique or interesting. I considered my life to be rather bland and mundane. Certainly not worthy of a book.

Then....
I started to really ponder my past and all the things I've done, the adventures I had. In retrospect, I've been privileged (and perhaps damned) to have had a colorful, unique, and unusual existence. Book worthy? Mmmmm......I dunno.

Jon, are you purposefully being modest, or are you ruefully manipulating your readers for sympathy and encouragement?

Both.

You've known famous people, have hobnobbed with the wealthy and privileged. You've slummed with junkies and hookers, and had a turbulent affair with an ex-con. You've performed as soloist with a symphony orchestra, lived on the beach in Baja, were chased by a mountain lion in Nevada. A very wealthy woman wanted to marry you. Another woman's jealous husband threatened to kill you in a very public place. You lived with a Hollywood actor, and had a tryst with a famous movie director in the  Beverly Hills Hotel. You knew a gay porno movie director and attended orgies at his house. You've survived your abusive father. You've battled alcohol, several nervous collapses, alarmingly self-destructive tendencies, a profound inferiority complex, and panic attacks that would have frightened Freud. 
Your life is worthy of a book.

You're very convincing, Kemo Sabe. And you've only scratched the surface.  
BUT 
(there's always an inevitable "but", isn't there?) 
Here's why I'm hesitant to reveal all in a book:

Describing my real life, with real events and real people is extremely risky. And I mean extremely.

If I name names of people still living (or even people now dead) there is the possibility - or, rather, the inevitability - of law suits. If I change names and fictionalize, it's a HUGE copout. When you put it all down, indelibly, on paper, it's raw bait for shark attacks.

Even in my blog I am purposefully evasive about many details in my life. Revealing too much is always a risk. 

And then there are the armchair nitpickers, who love to point out errors and mistakes. 
Example:
If I say that I was at the Blue Parrot Bar on 4th Street in 1985, somebody will inevitably inform me that it was the Blue Flamingo Bar on 3rd Street, which closed in 1984. 

Fortunately, my memory is incredibly sharp and I make very few mistakes.
So, there you have it, Geronimo.

I'm Kemo Sabe.

Oh. Sorry.   

In conclusion (and not a moment too soon) - - yes, I want to write this memoir, publish it, and unleash myself to an unsuspecting world.  

And I do have one important thing in my favor:
I've spent most of my life worrying about what other people think, catering to everybody's whims, bending over backwards to please (nothing sexual implied), and constantly discounting myself.

I've finally come to the point where I don't give a shit what others think. I have nothing to lose.  

Now, please excuse me, while I start making a list of suitable actors who could portray me in the movie version...... 

 

DISCOMBOBULATED THOUGHTS

These are weeds but they're lovely

Discombobulated, Jon?

Yea, every once in a while I like to use big words. I have no idea what the heck it means. It just looks good.

In my previous post I promised that I would address all of your comments in my next post. Well, this is my next post and I'm too lazy to address your comments individually. I'll merely sort of generalize.

I've had a few beers, so I'll ask for forgiveness in advance for my disjointed ramblings.

First of all, mysterious and anonymous "NB" brought up the subject of scorpions and wondered if I ever saw my cats kill one. In Texas, my oldest cat Scratch killed several scorpions but I never actually saw how she did it. I had heard that cats are immuned from the venom of a scorpion sting - - but upon doing research I discovered that it isn't true. Cats have padded paws, thick fur, and tough upper palates which helps protect them from the sting.

On the subject of the memoir that I am thinking about writing: it's unanimous! Apparently everybody is in favor of me spilling my darkest secrets like sacrificial blood and offering them for public consumption. So I'll do it.
What have I got to lose - - except my dignity, my reputation, my privacy, my friends, and my relatives?

What reputation, Jon?

I actually think everyone should write a memoir. We all have special stories to tell and they should not remain unspoken. It doesn't have to be a masterpiece - - merely a documentation of memories. At any rate, it's a beneficial catharsis. Several of my blog readers have mentioned wanting to write and they definitely should. Don't let your existence evaporate.

End of lecture.

I've managed to overcome my apprehensions about writing my Hollywood memoir. I was initially worried that it wouldn't be interesting, but I actually have an over-abundance of intriguing stories to tell. And they're not all X-rated.

I was worried about the problem of name-dropping and the possibility of being sued, by the living and/or the dead. The dead can come back to bite. Trust me on that.

Careful evaluation of each situation and a selective choice of wording might save my hide. I'll also (unfortunately) have to change some names when relating compromising situations.
 Like the time I had a four-day non-stop tryst with a film director in the Beverly Hills Hotel.......
 .....or the time I was in the car with the naked actor and I leaped out and ran away when the police stopped us......
or the time I was in a midnight police raid at the notorious Drake Theater (those three incidents are worthy of a book in themselves)

I'm not bragging. I'm just saying.

I'm suddenly (and sadly) realizing that most of these things happened 35 years ago (or more), and many of the places and people I knew are no longer pertinent. My exploits might seem slightly archaic and largely inconsequential. It was a different era but an extremely colorful one.

Now I'm starting to depress myself. 

I suppose I can safely express my observations about people I've met without any major repercussions. 
John Wayne was a rude drunk. Groucho Marx was extremely fragile and nearly senile. Liza Minnelli is a sweetheart but slightly discombobulated (there's that word again). Joan Rivers was intelligent and surprisingly sensitive. Burt Reynolds is more gay than bi.

Hey, I'm certainly no expert on Hollywood. I don't profess to be an historian. And I'm not about to write a celebrity "tell-all" because I don't know all.

I can only offer what I've experienced and observed.  Hollywood is tawdry and fickle, illusional and delusional, very often ruthless and brutal, one gigantic elaborate sham. A lot of tarnish beneath the glitz. The truth that I knew is deliciously stranger than fiction.


Change of subject (and not a moment too soon)

Rain, rain, and everything is green and lovely.

What about those mysterious "ghost" lights that I've seen in the forest? 
The nights have been cold here lately. The lights have been sparse but I did see some a few nights ago. I'm still puzzled because there is no logical pattern as to when they appear. My guess is still fireflies - yet, I've never before seen fireflies on such cold nights. 

 This is the forest by my property where the "ghost" lights reside

 

PONDERING POETRY AND MAD WOMEN

Madwoman by the Sea

painting by

Comite Pierre Puvis de Chavannes

Writing and publishing poetry will get you absolutely nowhere, unless you're a Big Name with a Huge Following. I'm a little name with a minuscule following but poetry was one of my (many) passions in my early years.

When I was in my late teens and early twenties I read just about every poetry book I could find. Having already been a journalist by the time I was sixteen, I was fairly familiar with the rudiments of writing. For some unearthly reason, I thought that being a poet was a lofty endeavor. To actually be a published poet was one of my main obsessions (in retrospect, heaven knows why).

It didn't take long before I achieved my goal. When I was nineteen, a small collection of my poetry was published in a Los Angeles literary magazine - the name of which I can't even remember (I honestly can't, but I still have a copy of it somewhere).

To abbreviate a tedious story, within a decade I had over 100 poems published in an impressive variety of literary journals, magazines, and anthologies. I received numerous awards for my poetry and recognition that I never thought I deserved.

When I was only twenty, some of my poetry was nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize (which had been awarded to such noted poets as Joyce Carol Oates). I didn't win, of course, but it was one helluva honor just to be nominated.

My poetic romanticism eventually dwindled, to the point that I now seldom bother to write a poem (let alone read one). There's absolutely no financial gain in writing poetry - - only spiritual satisfaction. Spiritual satisfaction is wonderful, but it doesn't pay the bills.

Writing poetry is a deeply personal endeavor and one should do it solely for personal enrichment and fulfillment. I find it to be an extremely effective emotional catharsis - as are all forms of writing (or so they should be).

I compiled many of my early poems into a book, which was published five years ago. Love Letters to Ghosts is, probably more than anything, a lament (and a sort of homage) to my romantic and turbulent past. It's largely what I would call an autumnal work -- dark, brooding, and often depressing. It reflects my inherent nature -  - but it's certainly not to everyone's taste.

Upon recently rereading the poems, I feel that a revised second edition is definitely in order. I'm in the process of doing this now - - mostly as a feeble attempt to fulfill my lifelong strive for unattainable perfection. And the fact that I'm presently snowed in.

Who were some of the poets that inspired you, Jon?

I'm glad you asked. Since I lived in L.A. when I began writing poetry, I was initially attracted to California poets - - especially Philip Levine, Gary Soto, David St. John. I also liked John Ratti, Louise Gluck, Lucille Clifton. I loved Carl Sandburg. And when I was drunk and in the mood to go slumming, I savored Allen Ginsberg and other residents of the "Beat" neighborhood. 

My favorite poet and greatest influence was Thomas James (1946-74) whose fiercely somber and introspective poetry collection Letters to a Stranger touched me deeply. I strongly identified with his troubled psyche. I was devastated, but not surprised, when I learned that he committed suicide at age twenty-seven. Had he lived, he would have been an extraordinary poet.

Thomas James influenced me. Sylvia Plath influenced Thomas James. Go figure.......

Most of your poetry is in prose, Jon. Don't poems have to rhyme? 

I've written many poems with rhythmic structure. It's wonderfully challenging, but I find it to be too creatively restrictive.

Isn't it rather - uh, effeminate to be a poet?

Hey, writing a decent poem will put hair on your chest and increase your testosterone level. I speak from experience. And I know some female poets who have balls.
(where the hell are these questions coming from?).

In conclusion (and not a moment too soon)
I believe that poetry shouldn't be over-analyzed. Extract what you want from it and savor the words. Savor the images that they inspire

Keeping in concert with my present Poetry Mode, I'm posting one of my early poems, which is included in Love Letters to Ghosts. 

Mad Woman on the Beach was inspired by a composition by French composer Charles-Valentin Alkan, entitled la chanson de la folle au bord de la mer (Song of the Mad Woman by the Sea).

Mad Woman on the Beach

One of these cold winter nights
she followed the sand
back to where secret lovers
once lingered while watching
a last slice of sinking moon

but the moon and the lovers
were gone, leaving no trace
of their deception. Sightless fog
slipping in from the sea
weaved a pasty net around her.
Underfoot
the bite of broken shells
punished her trek.

Names long forgotten
stuttered under her breath,
faltered on her tongue,
stuck with the salt on her lips
like the dried-out memory
of an ancient kiss.

In shivers of jealous rage
the cold air thickened
and held her tightly,
fearing that she might find the moon
snatch it up
and keep it hidden within herself
from the lies of future lovers.

She struggled against the cold 
anchor of fog,
the dreadful hiss of the waves,
and laughed out loud -

grasping fistfuls of obstinate night,
climbing towards
what might have been sky.


Jon V.
from Love Letters to Ghosts




Note:
Yesterday on my previous blog post, someone (name unknown) left a nice comment that somehow wound up in my comment moderation file.
 When I pressed the "publish" icon the comment suddenly disappeared and I haven't been able to retrieve it. Whoever you are, I apologize for this. You weren't deleted deliberately.