The only thing that actually fills a void is allowing yourself to feel feelings — but we instinctively shrink from pain. — Habets, via IM

I promised myself I wasn’t going to be political on this blog.  I just broke that promise.  I’ve realized, gratefully yet strangely, that not yakking amounts to selfishness, especially when I find something of such worth coming from none other than David Mamet (H/T Pilcrow):

…I wondered, how could I have spent decades thinking that I thought everything was always wrong at the same time that I thought I thought that people were basically good at heart? Which was it? I began to question what I actually thought and found that I do not think that people are basically good at heart; indeed, that view of human nature has both prompted and informed my writing for the last 40 years. I think that people, in circumstances of stress, can behave like swine, and that this, indeed, is not only a fit subject, but the only subject, of drama. [Emphasis added for clarity, since I think "I thought I thought" sounded redundant, but I realized actually scans fine.]

I appreciate the strange dour of his honesty. His telling is not all that ideal, a phrase recounted by David Horowitz in my favorite political memoir, Radical Son. This kind of introspective I find truly audacious and hopeful (yes, this is an obvious dig) — it’s less cynical — cynicism, that great curse of modern politics.

Here’s my favorite part of the article, a stunning admission:

I found not only that I didn’t trust the current government (that, to me, was no surprise), but that an impartial review revealed that the faults of this president—whom I, a good liberal, considered a monster—were little different from those of a president whom I revered.

Bush got us into Iraq, JFK into Vietnam. Bush stole the election in Florida; Kennedy stole his in Chicago. Bush outed a CIA agent; Kennedy left hundreds of them to die in the surf at the Bay of Pigs. Bush lied about his military service; Kennedy accepted a Pulitzer Prize for a book written by Ted Sorenson. Bush was in bed with the Saudis, Kennedy with the Mafia. Oh.

If only there were more free radicals in modern politics.

Update: ha ha, of course I forgot the link: http://www.villagevoice.com/2008-03-11/news/why-i-am-no-longer-a-brain-dead-liberal/

Overcoming Fiction

As a tangent to something my sister said to me about the difficulty in writing her thesis (GO CHAMP SISTER!), but related to her difficulty…and as a correlary to some stuff my brother has been saying on his blog about his endeavors to better his writing prowess…

Yesterday in my writer’s group, in talking about grammar and so forth when people write, I realized one of my HUGE impediments in writing, basically a huge key to why I have writer’s block so often, at least for long-term projects.

I’ve figured, for a while, that I’ve needed something to clear the block out of my system, perhaps something akin to kinesthesiology, or a miracle, or a miracle worker, but just haven’t been able to find that one yet.

Well, yesterday a huge piece fell into place.  I worry WAY TOO MUCH about grammar, diction, spelling, and so forth when I write first drafts.

It floored me to realize this.  See, I greatly appreciate the editor’s voice in my head — you know the one — the one handed down to me by my great literary family.  (”Yeah, ginormous is a word, even if it’s not in the Scrabble dictionary yet.  It’s a portmanteau.  And gynormous makes me lol.”)  (Mom, YOU make me lol.)  So I love the editor’s voice, naturally.  BUT!  I HAVE TO LET GO OF WRITING THAT WAY — on first drafts.  I have to sacrifice everything I know for the sake of — JUST GETTING IT OUT.  Verbal vomit.  American Yak.  It’s an ugly mentality.  But probably more beautiful than I realize.

Update: I just realized I misused the word “diction,” as that applies to speech.  But give me a break.  This was just a first draft.  As is this entire blog.

Lake Winnebago

The morning broke when I saw the body,
In that cold October spell.
I still don’t know what to do with the body,
The frost set and I felt the chill.

When you go to the lake,
Take care not to make a sound,
When you drive through the woods,
Make sure not to stop the engine.

Out there in that Autumn tunnel,
I set sail in the bleakest dream,
To an isle where the current runs thinner,
Proselytized by the souls of hell.

Out there in the void,
Do your best not to cry out,
At the gate of the unknown horror,
Try not to upset the wounded.

The morning broke when I saw the body,
Out across the frozen fare,
Out across Lake Winnebago,
The moon set and the sun broke through.

I spent too much time in kinetic-Siberia, foraging in the cold, dunging the fruitless shadowy hills, scraping up the weeds. I feel a need to shine, to buff up the waxy coat, to show the people my better nature. Raise the mighty horn, graze the waving fields of luster, praise the gilded shore. The rocks have wicked faces, and I am not afraid.