Patrick Mc Manus wrote:
> I always thought of Snapshots as a collective publishing venture (and great
> fun)we did use to more post it up each week though-very cheering
> P snapping P
>   
Nice to be back from the Nomail of St. Helena just in time for an 
intriguing discussion.

First, thanks to Alison, and also to Joe (who I do not know) and Anny 
(who I do) for assuming stewardship.

Second, my understanding when I joined in 2003 was that the Snaps were 
unrevised and messy, first-thought-best-thought things that might or 
mightn't be commented upon, which could and might need to be revised.

Am I the only one who cheated?  I doubt it.  But probably the best 
writing I've done in years was because of those Snaps.  I was affected 
by everyone else around me (I was Boy George's model for "Karma 
Chameleon") and changed my "normal" style.  Good?  For good?  For good 
or for ill or for naught?  Only my hairdresser knows for sure.

I have had a hit & miss record with publication.  Some first-draft 
things--a high proportion of them Snaps--found immediate wings on paper 
or online.  Others?...well, no.  And that goes for heavily revised 
material where I thought myself into a corner or two.  Right now I am 
pushing hard to finish something I started in 1996.  Eleven years 
working on one poem is way far enough; surprisingly I'm not quite sick 
of it yet.  People who read it might be but that's not 100% my problem.  
My firstborn delivered it to me in the hospital last week so I could 
play with it when we weren't weaving lanyards or having ECT and 
psychopathology sessions (I'm joking?).  He'd read it and said "Dad, 
this thing is whacked, what the f--- is going on in here?"  He is not a 
poetry reader but he reads me real well.  I scan and I rhyme.

I would love to get that thing out of my life because if I don't, I will 
keep rewriting it until I'm the formaldehyde monster in the bayou.  One 
journal, name forgotten and deleted from my bookmarks, used to leave 
space for draft work which became a dialogue online between writer and 
editors.  I sent them this ur-poem and they initially went crackers.  In 
short order there were scheduling issues; "would you submit to us in 
regular channels?"; "I'm sorry we can't use it."  "B--- me."

C. D. Wright read the first fragment in 1996.  She among all the people 
who read it said "This is a poem," and told me about William Bronk, 
Eliot Weinberger, and David Antin.  She didn't tell me about Frank 
Stanford, whose "The Battlefield..." is quite maniacal, and perhaps I'll 
one day have 36 hours to read it aloud to its conclusion. Two out of the 
four write a form of poeprose.  Maybe I'll just SHIFT-j the line 
breaks.  We'll see.

I would say for this proposed project that an investment of time in 
working with authors is necessary, especially if this is an affinity 
group where people support each other's efforts.  Or is that like 
believing Casablanca is on the water?  I for one would greatly 
appreciate tutelage behind the scenes from those who can and have the 
time to do so, even perfunctorily.

This place is my lifeline.  The months I could not write or almost could 
not write were premonitory, an old balloon tire filling with air, 
anticipating the explosion: "Mis'ry's comin' around."  Yes.  Now...in 
keeping with my assumption of the mantle of Arthur Miller's Eddie 
Carbone "who dared to be wholly known," I just spent 5 days voluntarily 
committed to a psycho ward two towns down, in Long Branch, NJ, 
birthplace of Robert Pinsky and the place where Presidents Garfield and 
McKinley expired.  Some distinctions.  The last year contained five jobs 
that blew up, a near trip to alimony jail, and a misguided trip through 
a school for therapeutic massage when I lack short-term memory to hold 
muscle groups in my head.  Plainly, it demolished me.  I may not even be 
able to stay here with the woman with whom I've spent the last 7 years; 
if not, I will move in with my younger son in Baltimore and try to get 
back on my feet (thank God for laptops with WiFi).  Last Sunday, New 
Year's Eve morning, I sat on the bed and screamed "Is there anything I 
can get f-----g right?????"  Rather than commit suicide using the head 
drugs I own, I called a local hotline had myself committed.  I needed 
the rest.  No joke.  And came out Thursday to deal with either retiring 
on Disability, simply collecting Social Security, or (ha, a miracle!) 
getting another job, perhaps as a greeter in WalMart:-).

And writing.  Writing is the core of the Holy Me.  So is scanning in B&W 
prints from photographs I made and processed with my own little hands 20 
years ago.

Look for the poem, I should warn you.  Now that I've said that, I have 
to finish it, don't I?  I may send it to you, Anny.  That is not a 
threat:-).

Ken

-- 
Ken Wolman     andreachenier.net	rainermaria.typepad.com
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For he purrs in thankfulness when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him, and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
                                --from Christopher Smart, "Jubilate Agno"