I have been away from blogging because I am completing three works, a short story collection, a book of essays and an extended memoir/reminiscence about my long-distant relationship as a reader and student of Krishnamurti, the spiritual teacher. After a rather negative experience with Red Willow Digital Press (stay away!) in which the editor failed to edit the book as stated in the contract with the flimsiest of excuses and other aberrations uncommon in a writer-publisher relationship, I withdrew my manuscript and decided to self-publish, going back to Wheatmark in Arizona who had published my first two books.
At this time after a final “scrubbing” by Jane, the manuscript goes out this week to be formatted for publication. I also contracted to have it converted for ebook reading, Kindle, in this instance. Within a week the book on Krishnamurti will be forwarded to David Herrle for his editorial insight. So, once again, I have monetarily invested in my own creative efforts. However, the third engine about to depart is “I Truly Lament,” a short story book on the Holocaust which is something I will coddle and pamper for a while, sending it out to contests, et al. I need a special publisher for this book, and if it is not to be, I’ll reach into my pockets and assist myself. The Kirshnamurti effort, “Ducks and Drakes with Krishnaji,” needs a specialized press, such as Shambala, etc. Needless to say, three books rarin’ to go is a delight.
Behind this flurry of writerly activity is the very conscious effort on my part to beat the clock, which is a first-rate delusion in any case. Medical issues have me sucking out the marrow of each day; Krishnaji would say that dying every day is much the same as living each day and if you can get a rational handle on that, one can “die” to many things — attachments, material things, etc. If all this work is published, I will have completed five books since 2005, not bad for an old codger whose young mind is hidden away in creaking joints and overall creeping decrepitude. I am always reminded of Asimov who said he would type faster if he knew he was to die shortly.
At this moment I am filled with many of Krishnaji’s words which are floating about in mind; consequently, I believe his comments on death and life are very apt, for if you consider each day as your last, imagine what you could accomplish, for many of us wait on life. For me, in my biased way, wasting time on a golf course in regular playing, in its very performance, denies essentials of living. By writing, singing, performing, painting, all the efforts of the artist, are great swings for the centerfield fence, for in that artistic blast to the outfield is a need to express, to give intent to life. Golf is above par here, always will be. I like money, I don’t love money, it is to be spent in order to make merry, as I see it. Never have had much of the greenbacks, but I have been filled with a need to “produce” something else. I am a “job creator” of artistic expression, totally of no importance to the mass of men, especially in this country.
The fantasy is to have a shelf with all five books to self-admire, allow me that. I have no idea whatsoever what I will write next, but I do believe the next book is already written in my unconscious mind. I have always known that, believed in that. In a way all artists channel their unconscious minds into the conscious world; it is the artist who trusts his nether empire who produces worthy art. Having had a lifetime of living with my unconscious, now and then it makes its conscious appearance to my surprise. I count on it. I trust it. And when I begin to write I look forward to its appearance. When I write I most definitely do not censor myself, allowing what I write to just come forth, not resisting the flow, not putting up dams. The original book, i, was written in two weeks, off and on. It just rampaged forth. That was the best proof I ever had as a writer of what each of us has within us if we only open up the sluice gates.
If you don’t believe in the unconscious, you are a conscious fool, a Palin.
One response to “Three Engines Leaving the Station”