Russian Novelist Ivan Turgenev, "My friend, return to literature!"

Last week I happened upon a copy of "Father's and Sons" by Ivan Turgenev, the 19th century novelist, playwright and short story writer. Here I thought Russian literature was all Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov, then this guy shows up!

As I read, slowly, deliciously, each morning, I traveled to rural Russia in the mid-1800s, into the lives of his exquisitely drawn characters. That's what stood out most: the characters. I had them so firmly imagined that I knew who was speaking each line of dialogue -- it was just that great. The descriptions were simple and detailed and so perfectly consistent that you felt them.

It's a story about a son who comes home from college with an older friend, almost a doctor, who was scientifically-oriented and questioned everything, absolutely everything, causing a stir wherever he went. The story essentially debates, "nihilism" and explores the differences between generations, the differences that are always there. It was fun and interesting, yet deeply philosophical, and Turgenev accomplishes this almost without the reader noticing, it is so deftly done.

It was pleasant reading -- not what everyone says about Russian writers having too many characters and convoluted plots.

I was putting myself there with them, riding in a carriage pulled by a troika of horses, sitting in the garden reading, or spending the afternoon listening to someone playing classical music on the piano. No TV, no radio, no Internet, hell -- no electricity! Up at sun up, lighting a lamp at dusk, asking for a woman's hand in marriage, announcing your arrival at an estate, this is how they lived. I thought of what steadiness and peace and tranquility that would be!

But I'm sure the less romantic side of their existence would make the reality perhaps unlikable for a Modern Man. I remember Henry Miller saying in "Tropic of Cancer" how absolutely frustrating it was to not be "at the machine" (typewriter) when some of the most brilliant thoughts hit. They didn't have laptops or voice recorders or portable HD video cameras, no, they had to remember, sift through it and write it down by hand.

They also defended honor with a duel (you know Tolstoy once challenged Turgenev to a duel?), with both men honestly following the ground rules (8 steps, or 10 steps? One or two shots? You load the guns or shall I? Until death or only wounding?)

So at first I had imagined how easy they had it -- no distractions, no buzzing electricity, no electronic music, no big screen TV. But then I thought of just how easy we have it: online dictionaries, thesauri, quick and easy reference searches on Google to find facts. There are no excuses. And we can always go off to the country and camp out, if we want to.

Back to Turgenev: he was such an influence in Russian literature -- world literature -- on his death bed he pleaded with Tolstoy: "My friend, return to literature!"

Which is what I, and all of us, need to do.

Artistic Purity

When you watch live music -- like I did all the time in New Orleans -- sometimes you come upon those rare artists and rare moments when you can feel the "artistic purity" of the musician or singer shining through like pure moonlight skipping across the ocean's waves. I've seen it in other artists too, like painters, sculptors, poets, and dancers.

You see them connecting -- maybe it is their soul connected to God -- and losing themselves in their art, in their performance. It isn't rehearsed, not an act. You can't fake it.

Sometimes I have felt it in myself when I'm writing. It's what Tennessee Williams called, "purity of heart" which he said was about the only noble aim, in the end.

I witnessed this type of artistic purity last night when I was strolling along the boardwalk and observing the beach scene after dark. It turns Bohemian, especially on Sunday nights at Latitude 32, the cafe and hangout on the beachfront, next to another newer cafe, down the block from a pizza joint, and next to a new upscale lounge.

Javier Cabanillas was playing his set of bongos, madly, feverishly, in complete control. Sometimes the speed and precision of his hands became superhuman. He led the campy crowd through the grooves and beats, at times standing to clap and sing, bringing the crowd to its feet. Javier was so lost in his art he didn't notice me standing in the window, transfixed. I scanned the crowd and drank it in. A girl in skimpy shorts dancing awkwardly, couples rocking to and fro, people milling in and out, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Another man, shaved bald, arms bulging from his sleeveless shirt, stood and squeezed in and pulled a few bongos from behind the piano and sat and joined in. A younger man kept time with a cowbell and rimshots on a drum set, and a pretty young girl sat back on a sofa and chimed in with tambourine.

They built to a crescendo and then ended a tune perfectly together. There was applause, and laughter, and joy and Javier stood, wiped his brow and took a long pull off his water bottle. He looked over and I gave him the high sign and clapped directly at him, nodding. "Robert!" he cried, and we exchanged smiles. He sat back, and they started up another frenetic beat. I watched and grinned and slowly faded out of the window, cleansed and pleased, and continued my stroll on the moonlit boardwalk.

Tijuana - Its Rough Around Here...

Whenever I speak with someone about Mexico, they always ask if it is safe, or simply overrun with violence.

Well, yes and no.

If you're not in the drug cartel business, it's safer in Mexico than in any American city. You see, the average Mexican does not have access to guns, and most don't own one. It's just that the cartel killings are so sensational, usually involving torture, beheading or mutilation. One musician who banged the wrong girl was found shot with his cock and balls taped inside his mouth.

I just returned to Mexico and there are a few new stories.

Richard and Solomon are dead, Hector the Mexican FBI man is in jail, and Zak is scared shitless.

Apparently Richard, a tall, clean-cut American, was running an escort business, and borrowed a lot of money, and went into shooting porn. He answered the door and a man and woman shot him in the face. Evidently he had filmed the woman in a porn video and posted it on the Internet, and her family found out. Bang - you're dead.

Hector, who works (worked?) for the Mexican FBI, was rounded up with 70 other agents and hauled off to Mexico City for interrogation. Looks like they've got him dead to right on corruption charges (they'd been monitoring his cell phone calls), and he'll spent maybe the rest of his life in jail, and lose his retirement. Now that I think of it, he showed all the signs: a big house, a wife and a girlfriend, drinking in the bars all day and night, and sometimes shooting off his pistol into the ceiling. In fact, a few weeks ago my brother said he needed a gun to shoot the pigeons in the courtyard, and Hector handed him his revolver.

I always thought he was a bit creepy and arrogant, and it seemed he might go off at any moment. But the choices aren't so easy for Mexican lawmen, you see, when the drug cartel men come calling, they say, "Take my silver or take my lead." So they have little choice. Eventually the protection breaks down and it all comes out.

Poor Solomon -- a slightly mentally ill older African-American who was always drunk on the first of the month when his check came. He used to fight and beat his crazy white wife. She died a few months ago and he was saying, "Now I don't have anyone to blame things on!" He seemed lost.

I don't know what happened, they say "he fell," and maybe it was natural causes, but it seems fishy to me that Solomon, who was always scraping by, suddenly was talking about buying some land and hanging around sketchy types and soon he was dead. Maybe he was getting some sort of insurance or inheritance from his wife's death. All I know is that soon after she died, about 4-5 black men began hanging out with him and playing cards. And blacks in Mexico are pretty unusual, even in border cities. So I have my suspicions as to how he died, and why.

Then there's Zak, from Kenya, who runs these escort service-like parties, and basically pimps out women. He speaks perfect English and Spanish, and has a beautiful son by a pretty Mexican woman. He's a dedicated dad, and a bright guy. A few days ago he was sitting and bouncing his knees, as nervous as a cat. "There was this lesbian coming down from L.A. and throwing all kinds of money at hookers; well, she got kidnapped -- but the police found her a couple of days later and arrested the four men who did it. But this other guy, he's sort of in the same business as me, and he got killed. And they know where I live!"

It's the sort of rough-and-tumble environment that surrounds New Orleans. But, like New Orleans, if you're not involved in the drug business, or other criminal stuff, it doesn't affect you.

All this doesn't break my bliss near the ocean, listening to the waves and watching the grand Pacific sunsets.

Maybe there's a book in it.

Why Write?

Whew!

Just got back from a whirlwind tour of Mexico's Caribbean coast and then to my hometown for the big high school "70s Mega Reunion" that I organized. It was a lot of work, but mostly it took time, and right up until the last bank deposits were made I sweated the financial side, hoping it would not lose money. Well, we made it. Nearly 600 attended the Friday night social and dance, and another 200 or so went to the ice cream social for retired teachers and the picnic. So it felt good to put in that effort over the last nine months to make it happen. And to have brought that many people together to share memories and reconnect was a good thing.

After I had all the reunion events on track, I scheduled a last minute book signing with Barnes & Noble for that Sunday. I was exhausted, but I had a hearty breakfast at Ross' and showed up.

Funny, no one else cares much about your writing, except maybe the few close friends and family, and even they believe it's a sketchy occupation (when I was writing my first book, my mother said, "What is it now -- a BOOK?" Like it was a dumb thing to do.)

Most of the people who showed up at the book signing were from my childhood church! Firstly, I felt guilty for skipping church that morning. And one church lady whispered in my ear, "Don't forget Jesus Lord in your life," like she had imparted the greatest secret ever.

Well, I sold some copies, supposedly enough to top the local bestseller list for a week, but I was giggling inside -- and cringing -- at the thought of these 80- and 90-something church ladies reading my filthy, blasphemous book! Oh well, I hope they have a sense of humor. Maybe my mother will be ostracized, or maybe they won't get past page three. I was trying to make some serious points in the book about religion and life but use the story and humor to deliver them. I quoted (and mocked) actual verses from the Bible in it. I also pointed out just one instance of Shakespeare having some fun when he was editing the King James Version (in my first chapter).

But really, the satisfaction from writing doesn't come from acclaim or money, it comes in finishing a piece of work, and being able to look back on it. Few professions can say that: people work and work and work and there is nothing to really show for it. An architect can see their buildings, a musician can listen to their recordings, and an actor can see their films, but mostly, people work without the pleasure of seeing something lasting created.

A couple of weeks ago I re-read my first book, the Hurricane Katrina story, and I will have to say that even though I would make some changes now, I enjoyed the trip to the past. I mean, some of those people are dead now.

Now I am proofing the latest version of my play. I made substantial revisions, cutting out two characters and adding in two more, including James Dean, (who was in the original version). The director who said it would be impossible to cast a "young Brando AND a young James Dean" read and critiqued the play, and told me to put Dean back in since, "this play belongs on Broadway, and in New York you can find those actors." So I did, and I'm pretty happy with it, although I am still making minor edits, and, of course, it will not be the best it can be until I can see it performed on stage and make additional edits.

But again, the satisfaction of holding and reading something you have put years in to is immense. And to know that future generations will be able to read my work long after I'm gone is gratifying too. Not to be arrogant, but the fact that these books are printed on demand, means they will never go out of print. Plus there are the physical copies.

So that's why I write.

Back to the book signing -- when I pointed out what crap is on the bestseller shelves, the manager said, "Yes, but that''s what sells." I told him I write what I want, and in the form I want, based on emotion, not logic (i.e. for the money) and he told me the other authors who come to town say that their agents and publishers will not let them stray from formulaic writing. That sort of makes me sick to my stomach. I cannot imagine having my imagination governed by business decisions.

I write for the passion of it, for the love of it, not for the money or fame. And I think that is the only true reason to write.

That is what motivated the great writers of the past.

Delicious Writing

A couple of weeks ago I dusted off my play, "Brando, Tennessee & Me" which I hadn't looked at in 3 years. I had notes on its structure and characters from the generosity of Perry Martin, the leading theatrical director in New Orleans. I heeded his advice and ripped the thing apart, and replaced two characters. One of the characters I added in was in there in the early stages of the play: James Dean. In fact, I think there were 8 or 9 characters in the beginning, when I did a staged reading of the play at the now defunct (due to Hurricane Katrina) True Brew playhouse in New Orleans. I also had Norman Mailer, Shelly Winters, Gore Vidal and others.

After the 3 day run of the reading -- which was a huge thrill to hear the actors bring my words to life -- Perry (and other theatre-types) said it needed to have a smaller cast, which would sharpen the focus on the characters. What Perry said was, "If it's 'Brando, Tennessee & Me' -- give me more Brando, more Tennessee!"

He initially suggested I cut out James Dean, because, "You want a young Brando, AND a young James Dean? You'll never find the actors for it!"

But after Perry read my re-write (at the time) he said I needed to put James Dean back in -- since this play was good enough for Broadway and "you can find those actors in New York."

Well, I put off and put off dealing with it -- and later discovered I'd lost the earlier versions of the play with James Dean in it -- so I had to go back and re-do my research to build that character's dialogue from the ground up.

I immersed myself in the world of James Dean -- re-reading his biography and researching his life online. It was interesting and delightful, not like work at all.

When I first wrote the play, about 6-7 years ago, there wasn't any YouTube. But now I could watch James Dean in interviews, screen-tests, and on TV and movies, to try to get a sense of how he spoke, and his language habits. It was delicious to be able to create that dialogue, and also to re-arrange things to give Tennessee and Brando more lines. And I polished up Capote's lines, while inserting a new character, the Bartender. I even changed the setting for most of the scenes which I'll keep secret because once others see what I've done, they'll want to steal the technique. It was something I'd thought about way back, and when I told Henry Hood of it (he was the old man I used to help out a bit and he was the inspiration for the play -- and it's central character, the "me" in the title) he sat up and said, "That's GREAT theatrics!" I was going to save that theatrical device and setting for another play I had in mind, but I decided to use it here -- who knows if I'll get to write another play?

It was fun writing - and I was kicking myself for not getting to it earlier!

But it wasn't all fun -- at one point when I had ripped the play apart, and had a bunch of notes and quotes I needed to work in, I felt as if my brain was splayed and I couldn't do anything else until I put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Then last week I had to get back to work on some tech reports, which is sometimes interesting, but certainly not fun or very satisfying.

In the meantime, Roman, the Crazy Croatian, who is a literary genius, read the play in its new form (last year he read the old version). He immediately saw the improvement and we went through it scene by scene and he pointed out some weak lines and places where I could re-structure the scene. So I've started to address those issues, as well as to work in a few more things I want to put in the play before it's ready.

Then yesterday, over wine, cheese and oysters, Roman said that the play was "really very funny, very good" and "will certainly be produced on Broadway." He said he always has had a knack for these things, for picking out what will be a hit and what will not.

So I am choosing to believe him and suddenly it seems as if the clouds of my recent weeks-long depression have cleared. In my mind, I literally see the name of the play in lights, hopefully at the Barrymore Theatre on Broadway.

A Writer Must Write!

Lately, for, say, three months or so, I just didn't write. I was indulging in the beach scene in the Mayan Riviera, and convinced myself that some R & R would be good for my brain to rest and would give me a chance to marinate it with ideas.

I barely even did enough work to survive for those three months (addressing "the problem of living" as Henry Miller said), and, well, I found that it's hard to let go of a Midwesterner's work ethic. In fact, it made me feel sort of anxious and nervous not to be doing something productive all that time, but I quelled that feeling with phenomenal bouts of drinking.

Maybe the break was good for me; I suppose the measure will be if I get some inspiration and start writing again.

It's not that I have writer's block or anything, in fact, I have at least 4-5 books rolling around in my head. I just can't decide which one to focus on. Because when you write a book, it owns you, or it should; it is in your every thought of the day, you are immersed fully in it, living in it, so as to find every morsel of thought to invest in it. It must be an absolute and total commitment. It consumes you.

I returned to Baja, to the Pacific coast, and on top of feeling I need to get busy again, my writer friend/nemesis Roman, the Crazy Croatian, has finally had some doors open for one of his screenplays at the biggest and best agency in Hollywood. I believe his patience and hard work and single-minded focus is about to pay off.

"Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies." -- Gore Vidal

And so Roman, feeling puffy and proud, took the opportunity the other afternoon to chastise and harangue me about not writing. Using caustic wit and brazen insults, I'll have to admit, I was getting close to punching him in his pompous, fat face. While I piled up the excuses, he noted, "Yes, and in my country it is said that one can shit in a church, if he has an excuse."

I reminded him of my prodigious output in the last few years and also the global reach of some of my tech publications, but he poo-pooed all that, saying, in essence, "If you're so smart why aren't you rich and famous?" My protestations continued.

But I knew he was right. Yes, I have published four books in four genres in four years -- but I can do more, and my best work is ahead of me. Which was another excuse; in essence, "I am gelling ideas and pondering so when I get going the next one is going to be really good."

I didn't really plan on writing much fiction when I went off to the Caribbean beach, in fact, I planned to get in good physical shape and catch up on some reading. Which I did, (to a degree). But mostly I drank colossal amounts of beer and laid in the sun.

I thought that perhaps the vast beauty of the ocean views might inspire me, but there is something about living in a town that has been mostly constructed in the past 20 years that turns me off. No history, no culture, no muse. And the place I stayed in didn't have a full desk, no place for writing to get comfortable.

Roman joked that my shtick should be "the writer who does not write."

Roman reminded me that about a year ago, when he told me of a brilliant writer friend, one who is well beyond even outstanding writers, a genius, but profoundly depressed and not writing. My response was that this man was wasting his gift, and was committing the greatest sin an artist can commit, which is to shun his gift and simply not provide art for the world to enjoy.

Hypocrisy, staring me in the face.

Then the beer and tequila flowed, on my tab, of course, and we visited other important topics such as high-end whorehouses in Rio, group sex (he refuses to ever again have sex with a single woman at a time, as it is just "boring"), heavy drinking, and Hollywood.

J.D. Salinger and "Catcher"

J.D. Salinger died a few weeks ago at 91, which prompted me to pick up that tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye that had been sitting around. Honestly, I think I was the only person in the world who hadn't read it. (As a writer, it was shameful.) The book was WAY too racy and suggestive for my small town Iowa high school to have on the freshman English reading list, but I finally got to it.

Some of it was fun, enjoyable, funny, and I was rooting for Holden Caulfield, the jock-hating teen outcast who'd just been kicked out of prep school. "I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot." But really, really, I didn't see what was so great about the novel.

Sure, it expressed the teenage angst that many high school kids could identify with, and yes, the voice was crystal clear and believable, but over and over I kept thinking, "This whole passage, or this whole chapter would be chopped to death by any editor or agent today." It meanders, and goes on tangents that editors and agents would have no patience for today.

As I read it I kept wondering 'What in here would make someone want to kill John Lennon?' What was so damn profound? I never found it. Maybe I'm dense.

A writer friend of mine agreed, saying, "The New Yorker crowned Salinger a genius, for some reason, and he could do no wrong after that."

But maybe that is what makes a great novel great: it doesn't follow the rules. Like Miller in Tropic of Cancer it departs from accepted forms and rambles on. And on, and on, pounding the point home.

Sure, I was amused, even laughing out loud at his first use of the word "gorgeous" in referring to a sixty-five year old balding bellboy saying, "Anyway, what a gorgeous job for a guy around sixty-five years old." I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. But later in the book he used "gorgeous" 7-8 times so it just became part of the vernacular of the narrator, watering down the impact of the first use of the word, although I can certainly see that Salinger was doing what teens do: grab a word and use it over and over.

It's like that with some words that writers get hung up on. I remember proofreading a friend's manuscript -- a daunting task, since he held a PhD in English -- and finding the beautiful use of the word "pale." Pale is a great word. But then I noticed he'd used it 30+ times in the book, and it lessened the impact of the few, select good uses of it, and certainly had to be cut. Only then he died at 48 and never got any of his books published.

I suppose that's what drives me to publish books rather rapidly, and some say, imprudently. It's this creeping fear that death will cut off my work and I want it to go on record. And if I live long enough, I'll go back and make it better, or if I'm dead maybe some editor will clean it up, but at least it's out there. I mean, there are all sorts of "writers" out there who are great at critiquing everyone else, but they never get anything really done.

I did, however, notice and pay attention to the little tiny nuances of Salinger's Catcher, where he uses italics on a word or part of a word in the middle of dialogue, which brings it to life with its emphasis. It's how people talk. So don't think I didn't notice, J.D.

But when I look at the writing itself, it's not near what Miller did, or Fitzgerald or Hemingway (both of which he mocks in the book), or many others.

I read where Salinger befriended the editor of the New Yorker, that they were quite close and both recluses. And maybe that's what really makes a difference -- who you know.

The Big Black Cock Next Door (not what you're thinking!).

Well, I've been in Playa del Carmen for almost 2 weeks now, and the new place is pretty darn good -- ocean view from my balcony, an even better view on the rooftop, a short walk to the beach and tropical birds chirping each morning. Been swimming, taking walks on the beach, doing yoga, and getting cheap massages. Bought a new beach cruiser bike the other day so I'm just about set.

The downside, and, of course, there always is one, is the freakin' barking dogs, which get going in a maddening chorus now and then; but they aren't as bad as in San Miguel de Allende, or most places in Mexico. These people and their stupid dogs!

Then there's the big black cock next door (not what you're thinking).

This large, black rooster lives next door and he crows and cock-a-doodles to his buddies across the way, mostly in the mornings. Actually, he's not as bad as the dogs, I don't mind him as much. Sometimes I wonder what he's saying to the guys a block over:

"Cock-a-doodle-DOO!" (That's right, I just nailed one of my hen bitches)

"A-DOO! Cock-a-doodle!" (We got some fine hen biotches over here!)

"Cock-cock-a-DOO-ooo." (Whatever. You know, I COULD use some strange.)

"COO-oo0, a doodle! Cock, cock!" (Come on over! You can tap one of my biotches!)

"Cocka-coo-doo!" (I CAN"T FLY!)

"Coo-coo-cock-cock-a-doo!" (They gonna make soup outta you!)

"COCK-COO, cock-a doodle!" (Bullshit! Who's gonna poke them hens for 'em?)

"Cock-a-doo-doo-a doodle!" (They gonna get tired of eggs, bro'!)

"A-doodle! Cock-a-coo-coo!" (Man, I need to get a new gig. I'm flyin' the coop!)

"Cock-a-doo-doo-a doodle!" (These hens is wakin' up, gotta go knock off a piece!)

"Coo-coo-doo cock-a-doo!" (Me too, these ho's can't get enough!)

That Impending Feeling..... Change is in the AIr

Tomorrow I'm moving to a new place: in more ways than one. I came to Cancun last October and made several trips to Playa del Carmen, Tulum, and Puerto Morelos, trying each one on, to see if it would fit, if it could be a place where I could live and write. Cancun is too much concrete and plastic; Puerto Morelos is too dinky; Tulum has beautiful beaches and oceanfront but it's isolated and has a dinky, cheesy nightlife scene. PDC is super gentrified and commercial in the main tourist area, and beyond that, in the Mexican neighborhoods, it's not much to look at. Nothing like the beautiful Spanish architecture and balconies in San Miguel de Allende.

But I came to the Yucatan for the ocean, and to write.

The Caribbean Ocean is probably the most beautiful I've seen, with those warm turquoise and electric blue waters that you can see through to the sugary-white sands. And I suppose I've always had this sort of tropical fantasy, this dream in my mind for as long as I can remember. Like "Gilligan's Isle" only with electricity, cold beer and restaurants not far off. So I'm going to try it.

I have trepidations, and there is this uneasy anticipation and dread that is filling me; the fear of the unexpected, the excitement of a new place, new people, fresh salty air. Before I moved to San Miguel I was even more worried, since I sent off money and didn't have anything in writing and I was moving my life there. It worked out great! Beautiful mountain views, new friends, good restaurants, bars, parties. But the main thing was that I did what I planned when I moved there: I finished my novel.

I'm hoping these new Caribbean views are inspiring and relaxing and my new place will be a good place, and most of all, a good place to write. It doesn't makes economic sense to move here during the high season. But all I know is I cannot live if I cannot write.

Henry Miller and "Tropic of Cancer"

I finally read "Tropic of Cancer" last week. Great book. Very interesting in terms of style, that is, mixture of styles, unique blending of autobiography and fiction, and also his resultant influence on the next generation of writers.

Some of the book is very direct, stream-of-consciousness realism, including details of sex, pussies and dicks. Even v.d. (Funny, they worried about gonorrhea and syphilis back then, and had unprotected sex with hookers. It was a crap shoot.) At other times it is surreal and flowery stream-of-consciousness existentialist prose that evokes great imagery. I'm not doing it justice since there are other styles and influences interwoven into the work too. It's impossible to name them all and to do so would reduce Miller's work.

What I find really interesting is it was his first book, originally published in Europe 1934 when Miller was 43 years old. Rather old for a writer (I was 45!). He went to Paris in the late 1920s, the roaring 20s, and wrote the book when he was in his late 30s and early 40s. He didn't have much formal training in writing, he read a lot and was mostly self-taught. He got through by taking a succession of toiling jobs, including proofreader for the Chicago Tribune. He went to Paris with no money to become an artist in middle age. He had no money. Just a love of art. And he was a painter too! How cool is all that?

The book was finally published in the U.S. in 1961, which led to a series of obscenity trials. Crazy. They tried to make him out to be a commie.

When you read the book you can feel that there is something great in it, and it keeps you reading. But it doesn't follow any traditional form, or have any kind of traditional or expected plot development. It drove home what I was trying to say last summer when I did a book reading/signing in Berlin and got into a (labored) discussion of the state of literature today. I say just write, do it, and throw out conventions. Invent, create, push the limits, do something different, create new language. (Shakespeare create thousands of new words!) That's the only way anything new will ever develop. In Berlin, I got myself caught in a web of English majors, you know, those non-producing perfectionists who have memorized all the proper uses for the semicolon and all. But they've never written a book, or if they have, they've never published it. They have never put themselves out there to be devoured. So what, really, do they know?

I could see direct linkages from Henry Miller to Bukowski, although little has been made of it. It seems obvious to me. He was a GREAT influence. It starts with the frequent use of harsh words that shock, like "cunt" or "turd" and goes on to be autobiographical and very direct about drinking, sex, and men and women. Bukowski went farther, to the point where sometimes he was beyond disgusting, simply pornographic. But he makes me laugh! There's actually some delicacy or sensitivity in Miller's writing and Bukowski just throws that out the window.

Also, having read Burroughs' "Naked Lunch" and Kerouac's "On the Road" last summer, they are fresh in my mind and I found Miller to be the father for some of their (the Beats') writing, most especially Kerouac's autobiographical stream-of-consciousness style and the freaky surreal stuff that Burroughs gets in to, talking about protoplasm and all. Only Burroughs goes farther so as to sometimes be just plain crazy. I mean, he repeated himself in "Naked Lunch" several times and he jumped all over the place, which reminded me of those types of paintings that are so fucked up and nonsensical the artist has to explain what it is. And I prefer art that I can just look at and appreciate on an intuitive level, art that doesn't require that much thought to see its beauty or genius.

Henry Miller led this extraordinary life, after growing up in Brooklyn and spending time in New York, he lived in Paris and eventually moved out to the California coast in Big Sur and lived to be 88. George Orwell wrote of Miller, "Here in my opinion is the only imaginative prose-writer of the slightest value who has appeared among the English-speaking races for some years past. Even if that is objected to as an overstatement, it will probably be admitted that Miller is a writer out of the ordinary, worth more than a single glance; and after all, he is a completely negative, unconstructive, amoral writer, a mere Jonah, a passive acceptor of evil, a sort of Whitman among the corpses."

Tijuana City Nite

Here's a short clip of my world in TJ, winter 2010.

Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano" --- Impressive, Depressing.....

After some joking back and forth by email about the importance of drinking in writing, which an editor friend called, "the grand texture," he suggested I read Brit Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano," a book with an alcoholic character set in Cuernavaca, Mexico. I thought it was quite apt since I have been in Mexico drinking and writing for several years.

I ordered the book and mentioned it to a respected writer friend here who stated flatly, "Absolutely my favorite book ever." My anticipation and interest piqued, I pressed him for an explanation, especially since this man has read almost every notable book ever written. He said, "That book will do three things for you: make you fall in love with writing (again); make you fall in love with Mexico (again) ; and make you fall in love with alcohol (again). It is written so exquisitely so as to defy description. You will see."

When the book arrived I spent several days just holding and admiring it, like prize game I'd killed in the wild and couldn't wait to feast upon, but relished in the hunger before the meal.

It didn't disappoint. Then again, it did.

To explain: it is simply so well-written that it showed me the unknown heights that I have yet to scale; and then again, it was SO good, so detailed, so perfectly crafted that I felt like an ignorant idiot even trying to write anything ever again. What am I doing? Who do you think you are, you hack? Why even try, you fool!

As I marveled at the poetic and lavish phrases, the lyricism, the symbols and the weight of it all, I became more and more discouraged, since it seems that no one should ever write anything again. It has been done; perfectly.

It is a slow-moving story, as the entire book takes place in one day, the Day of the Dead, and much of the detail is in the main character's (the consul) head. The kind of crazy crystalline thoughts that pass through the drunken, aware mind, that kind of detail was so spot on and at times hilarious it kept me reading and reading and not wanting to finish this delicious meal.

I could never write that well if I studied and wrote for 100 years. Lowry was a true genius.

Then I wondered what the publishers and editors and agents of today would think of all of Lowry's sidetracking and tangents, his beautiful details that made the book so rich. Today's established publishing powers would say whole chunks of the book do not move the story along, that there is not enough action, and they would have hacked it to death until there was nothing left but a carcass of a story. It seems there is no "literary" in literature any longer. Everything has to open with a murder or kidnapping and then go-go-go fast-paced action and spectacular made-for-TV twists for a book to make to bookshelves today. Ugh.

Down, and near to the precipice of writer's despair, the next day I re-read a little of Bukowski's "Ham on Rye" and (laughing) I realized (again) that there is room for many different styles, different voices, and there always will be. Buk is so simple, so clean. Lowry is erudite and lyrical, Fitzgeraldian more than Fitzgerald, and "Volcano" is like reading poetry or hearing music, page after page, in prose form. Both styles have their place.

So I resolved (again) to keep writing my truth, my style, my way, and to keep growing and changing and learning from the masters.

Three cheers for Malcolm Lowry!