It’s late and I can’t sleep nor can I get on the net to update the journal, so even if this says the afternoon of the 1st, rest assured that this was written at 1:35 AM. It was an odd night. I fell asleep right after the Simpson’s and woke again just after Space Ghost Coast to Coast. I cursed myself so hard for missing his show that I couldn’t get back to sleep.

I have serious ICFA envy of my Clarion peers who went to the ICFA conference last weekend. Despite the undoubtedly nefarious consequences of seeing some folks, it would have been nice to be near my people again. Late night chats about science fiction are the best kind – much more so when done with science fiction writers and fans. It might have even fired up the creative juices again, which have been dry these days. I’m finding it hard even to update my old work. This is not good now because I have to hand in my thesis on April 15th. The words won’t come. The writer’s block is so palpable, it’s tactile, the firm pressure pushing against every part of my body so the ideas remain isolated from their correct bodily processing centers.

A trip to the ICFA might have cured some of that. But really, any long getaway could for it for me. Clarion cured the block last year, but the occaisional trips back home don’t clear my mind as much. Time is too short, or maybe I don’t have enough of it. Or maybe I’m wasteful of the resource. This time last year I was having trouble coping with Murmur’s machinations to destroy my spirit on e kiloggram at a time. It’s not women problems now, (I’m getting very lucky and have had dates every weekend for the past four weekends). but maybe future problem? My job future, my money future. MMM, that doesn’t feel right either. I've been through this before. Or it is laziness, or my obsession with my laziness. My self-absorption with self-absorption. I like that. I hereby declare my writer’s block a result of self-absorption.

Now that we have that out of the way. Here is a general, boring update of the week’s past events. I went on a horribly dull date last Saturday night with a 35 YO who was certainly one of my best finds ever – older, smart, cute, employed - but the date was just kind of blahh. Woefully under-climactic. I called her the next day to make plans and I got the "wow, this is a really bad time for me. I’m just too busy to date right now" speech. Ah, but at least I got to the date in the first place. Failure is not optimal, but much better than never having tried in the first place. There is a cliché about regret somewhere in my head, but I can’t remember it right now. It’ll come to me, but it has to do with regrets over never having tried something to be the real sin of life. Ah, it’s all crap anyway.

I saw three great poets last week. John Ashberry on Monday, Bill Berkson on Wednesday, and Gerald Stern on Thursday. Ashberry is the king of them all, but he is old (sorry to be blunt). Mumbling and lack of energy marred his performance, but as a living legend of poetry, I am more than happy for having seen him.

Bill Berkson was a friend of Frank O’Hara’s many eons ago and they wrote poetry collaborations. Bill’s poetry is among the hardest to write; he writes very short (8-10 lines) poems that have gravity and grace. It’s not dense, but very efficient, doing to the work of a hundred lines in ten. Much to be admired.

My favorite was Gerald Stern, the old, playful nutcase. I saw him in Las Vegas in early 2000 and I got to see hum again. He is such a wonderful old man who loves his audience. He sets an air of familiarity with his listeners that you can’t help but admire the guy. His poems are funny, sad and written in an ingenuous manner that embraces the sociability of his text so that all can enjoy. If any of my readers ever have a chance to see Gerald Stern, do not hesitate to do so.

Notable of all these readings is how old they were. Stern is 77; Ashberry and Berkson are also in their late 70’s. How amazing to see men the age of my grandfather reading and connecting to their audience. I can only hope and pray that when I am that old that my mental faculties are in such good condition. Poetry keeps the heart young, yes? Could my black heart (the color of night, the shade of coffee, the vacuum of all that is good in the world) keep its youthful energy to such a ripe old age?

I’ll tell you in fifty years.


HOW JOLLY