Distribution Automatique

Thursday, July 31


It keeps occuring to me that I do
best when I write about a topic-
in spite of what I said in
Subject to Change. But, even then,
have I simply said all I want
to say? Is this the problem?

No, I love to write, I really enjoy it.
It's just that I'm only now learning to
work with it in a way that's more satisfying

No-Who am I= Who is listening to me.

When it comes to poetry, I seem to
want to speak in a soft voice. Yes,
I remember about X's readings- declaiming
his lines in a loud, booming voice. Of
course, too, Leland- affirmative,
confident- like Y. But my poetic
voice is not so confident- yet I am
no longer afraid of coming out of a delusion.

Perhaps I've been deluding myself about
poetry- but I was out to show that I
can write. Constantly assailed by
doubts, I am forever choosing things
in my life that give me no solid
foundation- with one exception- my
therapy degrees and my practice (and my therapy).

One thing about the short poem that
attracted me was its "quick fix" satisfactions.
Once published,I could easily picture
certain forms being published in certain
settings. But in the past ten years-
the definitive date being X's pronouncement-
I have discovered again that my
poems do not *progress* the way my essay
writings progress. This is true from a
publishing context with no question. But this
is largely a question of "change" as Leland's
letter puts it. In a sense, going to
a publisher is like going to a doctor. That's
where an image of Douglas holding Emma
comes in. Maybe the fact that I've tried
hard to be honest with myself that makes my
writing interesting to others- and to myself.
I'm getting more and more of a taste for that.
Part of my anxiety (I felt it then) also
comes ffrom this successive (excessive) self honesty.

Only fears of coming out of a delusion
if I'm afraid I'll have nothing else.
But then at times I get fuzzy about what
is a delusion and what is not a delusion.

But art is based on fantasy- and the
environments of mind in which I build
whatever Iwrite are important to me. From
this perspective they are not delusions-
in fact- they are the opposite. They are
*armatures* (I prefer this word so much
more to structure with its whiff of
strict schedules and strict attention.)

Why should I write anything other than what
I want to? Oh, never again (baby), never
again. "I hate to see that
evening sun go down, cause it makes me
feel like I'm on my lastgo-round."
(Unidentified jazz singer)

"Oh, woe is me" days are over- not that
I'll never mourn a loss. But I'm not deluded
about the "powers" or"impact" or pleasures
of such mourning.

Yet again- stimulants- coffee,
nicotine, sugar constantly ingested-
points to a problem. There is a dependence
in me on (imaginary?) and *exhilirated*
states. These still must be the result of a great fear
of calming down. And yet, that I've
found more and more ways, to avoid
acting out my anxieties brings me a
measure of constant strength (awareness of

A "primitive language" is an awareness of
the values of giving expression to
ones thoughts as a way of learning
what they are. "Free speech" then "free association"
then- private language ("personal" language?)