Meanwhile, I’m having problems with my conception of the urwareness, or soul.  Why, as I’ve wondered before, is it aware of the brain’s operations instead of, say, the liver’s?  Why, too, is it aware of a given brain’s operations instead of a whole family’s, or the world’s or universe’s?  My only answer so far is that it is aware only of the state of the matter it is in contact with.  Their state reflects the state of the matter surrounding them, and the state of the matter surrounding the surrounding matter, etc.  The brain would dominate the data-package resulting because of its complexity and variability while matter beyond the skin would have little effect due to its simplicity and sameness–i.e., mostly a bunch of gas molecules.  All that is so far as my outer reality theory is concerned.  I’ve already stated my inner reality theory which is simply that one’s urwareness is sensitive to the nature and state of the other urwarenesses it is in contact with, and which make up the whole of the universe except it–and whatever nothingness the universe is in.  It experiences these other urwarenesses as everyday human experience–e.g., contact with urwarenesses x, y and z at surface locations a, b and c translates as me typing this; If z move to location d, I experience taking a break from my typing.  Etc.

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Okay, now a news item:

Today marks the start of an exciting project at All Things Considered. Each month we’ll be bringing in a poet to spend time in the newsroom — and at the end, to compose a poem reflecting on the day’s news.

All Things Considered

This announcement was posted today at New-Poetry.  Every time I think things couldn’t be worse for serious poets in American, I immediately learn I’m wrong.

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I was going for accessibility with the top two.  I added the bottom one to show a little of what I was doing with long division and color.  In any case, I’m now down for three more exhibitions, two more this year and one in 2013. 

I got to talk with fellow artists, too.  One of them did abstract-expressionist stuff with the word, “love,” embedded in them–another local visual poet!  I came across another artist who uses some kind of transparent, screenlike fabric in her work: she paints an image on it and hangs it in front of regular fabric with a background painted on it.  I thought it worked really well, and have vague ideas on what I might do with it.  So, quite a good hour or so!

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     Sonnet from My Forties

     Much have I ranged the kingdoms Stevens forged
     Of deeply penetrating inquiries
     Into, and deft use of, the metaphor,
     And volumes filled in vain attempts to reach

     The heights that he did. Often, too, I’ve been
     To where the small dirt’s awkward first grey steps
     Toward high-hued sensibility begin
     In Roethke’s verse, or measured the extent

     Of wing-swirled, myth-electric, royal light
     That Yeats achieved, or marveled down the worlds
     That Pound re-morninged splashingly to life,
     But failed as dismally to match their works.

     Yet still, nine-tenth insane though it now seems,
     I seek those ends; I hold to my huge dreams.

The following struck me as much better:

     Sonnet from My Forties

     Much have I ranged the broad-skied latitudes
     That Stevens festivalled his inquiries
     On truth and the imagination to,
     And reams used up in vain attempts to reach

     The heights that he did. Often, too, I’ve been
     To where the small dirt’s awkward first grey steps
     Toward high-hued sensibility begin
     In Roethke’s verse, or measured the extent

     Of wing-swirled, myth-electric, royal light
     That Yeats achieved, or marveled down the worlds
     That Pound re-morninged windily to life,
     but failed as dismally to match their works.

     Yet still, nine-tenth insane though it now seems,
     I seek those ends; I hold to my huge dreams.

But “broad-skied” bothered me.  Nice thought, but I didn’t like the repetition of the d-sound, and “broad” seemed to me low in lyricality.   So, once again I improved it:

     Sonnet from My Forties

     Much have I ranged the large-skied latitudes
     That Stevens festivalled his inquiries
     On truth and the imagination to,
     And reams used up in vain attempts to reach

     The heights that he did. Often, too, I’ve been
     To where the small dirt’s awkward first grey steps
     Toward high-hued sensibility begin
     In Roethke’s verse, or measured the extent

     Of wing-swirled, myth-electric, royal light
     That Yeats achieved, or marveled down the worlds
     That Pound re-morninged windily to life,
     but failed as dismally to match their works.

     Yet still, nine-tenth insane though it now seems,
     I seek those ends; I hold to my huge dreams.

I don’t think I’ll live long enough to improve it more than thirty or forty more times.

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Happy pills or alcohol would probably solve the problem.  Unfortunately, anything that would make awareness of failure impossible would also make awareness of success impossible, too.  My temperament is such that irrational hope of success will always trump equally irrational fear of failure, for me.  Even though my greatest feelings of success have been of anticipated success, almost never of actual success. 

Note: after I posted this, I felt a sense of triumph.  That made me realize a trick I learned so long ago that I use it automatically without thinking about it: giving oneself games to play that are almost impossible to lose, in this case, my game of getting a blog entry done every day.  That’s a great lesson for those of you looking for terrific self-help methods!

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To make this entry more than a diary entry, here’s a poem of mine from a year or so ago.   I posted it then, but just now made a slight change to it, making a whole new poem.  I changed “full” to “certain.”  I decided the implication that I’d come to understand everything was dumb.  Now what kind of understanding I’d achieved is unclear, but should come across as Important.  I don’t know whether this poem became visual later; I don’t think it did.  I think it may work best as is, but who knows.

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Saturn was at my mid-heaven two other times–when I was around ten and when I was around forty.  At ten my IQ test score propelled me to number one among the fourth-graders at Lincoln Elementary School.  Actually, I believe, to number one of all the kids at the school (a small one).  Quite a peak.  At forty I got my B.A. degree in English from Cal State, Northridge.  Summa Cum Laude.  Wow.  At my present age?  Well, there’s the upcoming exhibition of my work at the Arts & Humanities place.  I suppose it will be a vocational peak for me even if no one goes to it.  All will not be lost in that case, for Saturn will go retrograde and hit my mid-heaven going in reverse in September, then come back to hit it again, later.  So I should get three peaks.

 Diary Entry

Wednesday, 21 December 2011, 7 A.M.  I’ve been up and hour.  Want desperately to go back to bed, but don’t, because I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep. 

7 P.M.  As I said in my entry for today, I got it done late, just a little while ago, because I thought I’d already taken care of it.  Otherwise things went pretty well: I finished the two reviews I wanted to get done and also took care of my next Small Press Review column.  I had time to do more but couldn’t push myself to.  I have an essay to write by January.  The one in response to one by Jake Berry I believe I’ve mentioned before.

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Basically, what I did was convert from 200p/i to 600 p/i, then try to make the colors denser. I also made a few changes in the shapes. The graphic is something I’ve been having trouble getting right in my eyes for years.

Diary Entry for Saturday, 26 November 2011, 9 P.M. :  A lousy day.  Tennis in the morning that went a little better than usual but I can’t get my head in the game or run right.  I fiddled on and off with the seciton of my book I’ve been working on for several days and it’s more screwed up now than it was when I began.  I made one so-so exhibition hand-out, and got a blog entry posted.  I’m still winning my Civilization game.  I didn’t do much reading, having finished the Clancy novel I was reading.  It wasn’[t all that great but good enough to keep me reading his books.  Meanwhile I participated (too much) is a moronic debate at New-Poetry in which Amy King has stirred up the women who post there with a claim that I and Mark Weiss are manipulating others there–principally the women–to try to make them think they are crazy.  I’m afraid I’ve always considered King a mental case, and now tend to wonder about the sanity of the women agreeing with her.  King seems one of those types who is perpetually wanting to bring others to trial for incorrect morality, instead of arguing ideas.

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