Sunday, August 08, 2010
What's this sh*t?..I think I need a Sunday off.
I am no Seventh Day Adventist, but like a New Guinea wanderer I once met, I am sort of, like one M. Dennie Mark, Seventh Day Adventist. He seemed very self-important,said he was "very well educated", by missionaries. "You can address me as M." And,"I believe in the Seventh Day."
Well, Saturday for me is for revelling and carousing.
But I seriously need a Sunday.
For the past eight years, I have been going flat out, writing like a fiend, with the same results: zero on the book publishing front, just a line or two in the periodicals to keep the old hand in.
Einstein says somewhere that if you keep doing the same thing over and over again, with the same results, you are crazy. I am crazy.
I have finally published a book. It started out as an in-between editorial and novel, or some other mongrel thing...I mean to talk to commentator JR about this...but after tight editing and rewriting, paying close attention to plot and character, I think I've finally gotten it right.
Whew. The tension's out. Mid-life crisis is over, but here on the slope end of seventy it seems to me more like Perpetual Crisis. Sort of like the menopausal Dr. Smith out of "Lost in Space", from the Seventies. "Oh dear. What will become of me."
I think I need a Sunday.
...Going flat out for eight years. It's beyond Seventh Day Adventism.
I am M. Dennie Mark, replete with huge penis sheath like they used to wear in New Guinea? but its more like a wooden codpiece once worn by Restoration fops in the coffe houses, like Mick Jagger stuffing a toilet roll into his pants just to make him as large as the big boys. It's all show. One is actually, uh, quite modest.
I was never a conventional teacher of writing. The Trickster God would sometimes get me. I would show to my class, usually ladies, a picture of a New Ghinea warrior, in full, threatening gear. Abnormally huge.
Then I would add,
"Ladies, ladies, the boat for Port Moresby does not leave till Tuesday of next week."
Other teachers, hearing of my antics, would point out my beautiful Victorian mansion with the attic atop, where I would write. "Seems so serene, so affluent. But a madman lives there."
Well, what the hell. I used to hang around with cookbook writers who had said. "You're a writer. You're an asshole. Writers are assholes. All artists are assholes."
But they did tell me at the Toronto Star that talent seems to hide in the strangest places. Especially when my girlfriend at the time, Marilyn Beker, would take me arm in arm, and join me in a lusty recitation of madrigals and gavottes.
"The guy can do his job, but is he ever weird!...And his chick doesn't seem so togeher as well.
Even then, I think I needed a Sunday. Four years of intense intellectual effort for a guy whose real nature was reveller and carouser, a drunk...and it was beginning to show. I would weird -out an entire beautiful brass elevator-full of Star employees by giving twelve people a Vodka bouquet that would fumigate a farm.
Said Pat McNenly, my Star tutor at the time, "Migod, this elevator is really loaded."
I'd never talk back to Pat McNenly a former Typhoon pilot during the Normandy invasion and claimer of two Focke-Wulfs shot down by his trusty 20mm cannon-armed Typhoon. "You gotta lead your target. Give him brace of twenty-mike-mike, like a skeet shooter.
Well, I finally hit the targer. Opened fire with my "Fire in Bradford", which is already making money, and I hope the twenty mike-mike guns keep firing.
But I need a Sunday.
Again, too much intellectual effort, for too long, from a guy whose nature was reveller and carouser.
I miss my barmaid, who says she loves me. Egad. I think she means it...Surely there must be some way to exploit. :)
Reveller and carouser, fool of the four p.m. drinks.
Some women like fools.
I'm half convinced marriages hold together because the wife knows old hubber is a fool, and who else is going to look after the poor dweeb?
Like my wife used to tell me, "You're cute, but you're dozy."
And I'd come back from work and say I'd f*cked up a story and she would say, "What else is new?
"We are two f*ckups grown somehow strong."
But even then, I needed a Sunday.
A faroff place, a moral holiday.
Jesu Cristo! you need material for your lies.
I finally sent the new novel to my ex-wife.
She does not talk to me any more, but my poor daughter had said,
"You know what Mom said? "What's this shit?'"
Damn. You sure need to be a devil to earn your halo.
Maybe, in fact, I just need a sh*t.
Running out of gas. I get the sense of dying of starvation.
I am exhausted. I need a Sunday.