…I wrote one final, and tomorrow another, and in between I will write nothing of merit (sure, I think I get the meaning of the word now, sigh). By merit I mean writing something real to me (probably a poem), not factual, or non-fictional, but imaginative. Something from the dark cave of my released mind, (maybe cave art?). An escape from the primordial pain of the fingers (I’m faster typing on a keyboard anyway), a release from the spasmodic jag of writing cramps, both mentally and physically (which is happening right now). Although, I must confess, I’ll not be writing something of grace. (Because I’m passionate, dammit, not graceful (those who know me well understand the ungraceful part all too well)).

Are you dreaming of a vacation away from the tropical storms of life? Need a rest from the weary beaches of snow, the drift of monotony boring into the brain, the swell of a blizzard so great you run to the nearest airport and head for Cuba? Fly to the land of the mojito, cigars, beaches, and relaxation. No, I’m not giving away a free trip for two to the pristine palaces lingering on the shores, and no, I haven’t been offered a job as travel consultant, but I have been told by the wonderful storyteller Kevin MacKenzie about Nereida Herrera Samuels, one of Cuba’s finest professional Narradoras. Nereida is offering customized tours of Old Havana, complete with stories of the Revolution, stories about growing up in Cuba, stories about the people of Cuba, and stories about stories about stories. It sounds like an outstanding opportunity. For more information about the tours contact Kevin by phone toll free 1 (866) ALL PLAY, or by email: Kevin@storiesbykevin.com.

And speaking of Kevin, watch out for the Christmas Story Sled plowing through Regina this December. It’s organized by volunteers from the Regina Storytelling Circle. Keep an eye out for their next location, and for their reindeer. Contact Kevin for more info.

…because this poem seemed appropriate somehow to my studying. (Click on the picture to get the video started).

…is what I’m doing. Today I’ve been digging through my notes for finals. What most concerns me is the concept of merit/grace in my Contemporary American fiction. These two threads try to quilt their way through the notes. The designs are so intricate, I don’t know if I understand any more or any less their commonality or their theme in this patterned state than when I first started.

Merit: As an abstract quality.
1. a. Theol. The quality (in actions or persons) of being entitled to reward from God. (OED)

Grace: Favour, favourable or benignant regard or its manifestation (now only on the part of a superior); favour or goodwill, in contradistinction to right or obligation, as the ground of a concession. Somewhat arch. of grace: as a matter of favour and not of right. in grace of: in favour of, for the benefit of. (OED)

Besides being graced enough to read Grace Paley, I’m thinking about Robert Olen Butler and the postcards. The Earl story and 9/11. Bobbi Ann Mason refilled my head with 1984, Springsteen style, the onslaught of pop culture, and the words of grace and merit still needled. Vietnam re-enters my head sewing the past onto the present and the whole picture looks a little less hilly(the house on the hill concept). Or not. DeLillo, of course, messed with the structure of body and time so that now I’m contemplating my own lack of merit in understanding the concepts of fiction and grace.

…to do now that I’m no longer procrastinating. Sigh. Today I read some Jorie Graham–in-between pretending to work, although at my job, I don’t think I can pretend to work, fake it maybe, but not pretend. Ha! I’m partying tonight–whoopee! Oh, and I’ve been composing music on this (for the music composer click on Vc).

…I’m doing tonight. One: the essay I’ve so procrastinated on–its almost done, I have almost 11 pages of garbage to sort through. It’s due tomorrow. Two: surfing here and looking for a Russian poet–Svetlana something or other– mentioned by Patrick Friesen the other night at a reading. His poem about her death still holds me.

…I have done today instead of my essay: got dressed, made my bed, didn’t eat breakfast (I never do), but drank some coffee (I always do that), checked my email, replied, sent some new ones, went to work, did many haircuts, (actually all haircuts today), had lunch with a friend (portabello mushroom burger, messy but yum), did more haircuts, wrote a few notes on my essay but didn’t type them up, drove home, made supper, ate supper, cleaned up from supper, read my email again, answered, deleted, read an essay on procrastination, read some blogs, responded to some blogs, and wrote on my blog. And just for the record, I’m an Arousal Procrastinator.

And because this blog is too proper. (From Bookninja).

“The mind, when it feels or intuits, finds its object in something sensuous; when it imagines, in an image; when it wills in an aim. But in contrast to, or it may be only in distinction from, these forms of its existence and of its objects, the mind has also to gratify its highest and most inward life, thought. Thus the mind renders thought its object”–G.W.F. Hegel Encyclopaedia.

…I liked tonight was here. It’s a first book electronic chapbook series from Poets & Writers Magazine.

…is not much these days. The Random Highbrow is up, and I’m pleased to be right before Brenda Schmidt. Her sonnet is amazing!

A friend has asked me many times why he writes, why I write, why anyone writes. I always say it doesn’t matter why, but that they do, for their own reasons. Why worry about the intangible? Worrying about why seems unimportant, or maybe this is just me. Tonight I’m thinking about the living, the life/art of any writer, the irrational reasoning in it, around it, the framework of it, and, I’m thinking, that much like writing, maybe life is something we just have to do. Maybe life is the one extraordinary metpahor we need to keep writing.