I did a foolish thing and began to read my earlier post on this blog and found it utterly boring and self-centered. Below is a revision.
I noticed that since I mused about incarceration but opted not to continue, that interest in my blog has lagged.
Now... what drama can I mine from my pitiful existence? My mood is 0.5 kilobunnies so I don't feel inclined to blog about my life. I don't care about an audience because I have a life. It's the same life I had when I was depressed, but now it feels like a life. I can't emphasize this difference enough.
We are chemical beings, that is certain.
I toured the county jail not long ago looking for opportunities to serve ala Chuck Colson but found no openings. Nevertheless I did see their high tech fingerprint system. No ink, no muss. You put your hand down on the glass, then each finger separately. Afterwards you place your entire hand around a see-through cone containing a revolving camera. All these pictures are instantly digitalized into black-and-white graphics just as if they'd inked you. And they go to the FBI archives immediately. Pretty scary, huh?
I also saw breakfasts being delivered--a small bag of generic Fruit Loops and an equally small carton of milk, together amounting to 240 calories, less than a tenth of what I need calorically to maintain my present weight.
I've been going through all the poetry files I have in my computer and striving to eliminate duplicates and deleting also-rans. I'm also trying to find as many credits as I can, many of which I foolishly did not record.
I did submit to Ploughshares yesterday by e-mail. In my better mood I think, "Why not go for the high rep journals? Yet in sampling their pages I saw so many Iowa Workshop Poems, or PEMLO(C)Ds: "Personal Emotive Monologues with Lots of Concrete Details, that I was instantly discouraged and hard put to match a poem of mine to their tastes. To make an Iowa Workshop Poem take the quotidian and spin it like a pizza, add the inoffensive offerings of non-contoversial musings, and end with a whimpering epiphany.
Poetry nowadays, in general, lacks passion and conviction. Everyone is trying to talk around everything without actually committing the sin of opinion. Form over substance, as I decry over and over. Beyond mere fashion, it may also be because poets nowadays have few passionate convictions. Dancing around an issue is the norm.
The neurotic fear of offending others is the dark side of tolerance. The dark side makes whitebread.
I ordered a bed on the net which should be delivered late next week, at which time my back may improve. I'm hoping it will help me overcome the effect of my medications because it has memory foam.
Coming soon to a theater near you: Doctor Chaffin Goes Euthymic!
At 0.5 kilobunnies and grateful,