My Pharmaceutical Sandbag Notwithstanding: I don't hate Norman Vincent Peale

The book that surprised me this morning in my search for a random quote was Norman Vincent Peale's The Power of Positive Thinking. I scorned it for years--as a book and a type of book. Given my knee-jerk classicism, affection for work of mouldering men mostly white and often colonial, and my inbred cynicism, my not hating Peale eight years ago shocked me. Sort of.

Sure, there is something innately cheery about me which might be a predicator for positivism, and yet I am a depressive. As I've written previously, I finally, late 2008, accepted the fact that I got me a case of lifetime blues, though what anyone means by depression varies, case to case. My troubles until end-of-my-days are mitigated by 100 mg of a pharmaceutical sandbag.

Peale was a Christian preacher and if you, reader, have a knee-jerk reaction against the New Testament or Bible in entirety, hey, I can't blame you. The good that's been done in the name of those books is quiet good. The bad that's been done is loud and known as "history." If you, reader, have, however an aversion to meditation or belief in any kind of power higher than yourself, a Creator, a goddess, I don't know what to say except, fine. I don't.

Yes, I wrote The Future Is Happy(my poetry collection, ahem). Read it and you'll (a) be transformed! and (b undertand my chipper-ness is hard won. I don't predict future happiness for the globe or the poor people on it. I merely use "happy" and "positive" as tools so I'm able to do what I can for the poor, hungry, abused, exploited, raped, used.

Also know I don't agree we can "positive think" our way out of illness. Sometimes you get lucky, sure. Mostly I want to run over with my imaginary, black, four-wheel SUV those who tell cancer patients and other among the physically distressed they can heal themselves. We can hurt ourselves and we can help ourselves. The degree to which we do either is not a function of will. Okay. Three quotes from Peale:

"By our speech we can also achieve quiet reactions. Talk peaceful to be peaceful."

"Fill your mind with all peaceful experiences possible then make planned and deliberate excursions to them in memory."

"Frequently I find that people who are lacking in inner peace are victims of a self-punishment mechanism."

That's enough. The stories he tells are not entirely useful but the spirit behind them isn't objectionable.

Don't Fear What You Fear: Oedipus Object Lesson

When I began writing I wrestled with subject matter. I felt I should be writing about Oedipus and Jocasta. The classics, as I wrote in my last entry, were too much a part of my life, or at least it felt that way. For someone who claims to be haunted by classics I've read a lot of suspense novels--and do know my pop references.

I was still working my way into a natural writing style, by which I mean, trying to sound like myself.

That's the best writing, writing that sounds like the person. I know that from working with students and reading friends' work. It's same as the difference between indicating an action, as actors in a melodrama do--putting their hand on their brow to indicate worry--and method acting--being the character in her or his moment.

Back to writing. A short story of mine comes to mind: "Washing." I'll explain why, later. Published in Webster Review out of Webster University in Missouri, it's a two-character tale of a woman in her early twenties who meets a much older man at a laundromat. He's a Hollywood classic--someone who was in the industry from age nine or so. Lives near Franklin parallel to and north of Hollywood Blvd. Has many stories to tell about the business. His stories are authentic. I lived around that area and heard those stories from similar characters.

An insecure twenty-something. An older guy at a laundromat. No Oedipus. No Jocasta. Not back then.

Last night? December 12, 2009? Yup. They finally strolled into my writing. I'd visited a friend's writing group; got the time wrong so was only there for the last go-round. We were given a one-word prompt and off we went. The word? "Hollywood."

At first I wrote prose about teenage years--living over the hill from the Blvd., how all I had to do was traverse Barham Blvd. and there I was with the runaways. What's on my mind recently is my need to break into my fog.

Two pages of writing and I couldn't handle any more prose. Long-hand is how I write first drafts of poetry, not fiction (or blogs). A poem fell from my pen like silvery mercury. Earlier that day a different friend had reminded me about Sophocles, author of Oedipus Rex. The incestuous couple, Oedipus and Jocasta, was on my mind.

The myth is so strong and knowledge of their mistakes so implanted it's sheet joy to play with. I don't want to write out the unfinished poem's energy so I will stop. I wrote this because I suspect it will help me navigate memory. The battle is often with paralysis. I am figuring it out and fighting.

And, my dear friends, I am writing.