How can I stir up some more interest in my blog?

When I started this, I thought I'd gain a humble, small following after a few months. Word of mouth, chance, whatever-- I'd meet a few personalities.

Didn't happen.

Then I went over to WordPress and started posting in both places. I've been advertising on Facebook every time I write a new blog. And still, there isn't the following I was expecting.

Maybe I'm not the writer that I think I am. But I think I am. If anything, I'm better than I think. Because I'm usually really hard on myself.

There is so much in this world to command one's attention, and so many distractions. Right now the television in my hotel room is spitting on about NBA basketball-- and I keep getting sucked in. But Dad is watching the playoff basketball, in between the commercial breaks that are so annoying and the annoying in and out of the satellite connection...

That's right. I'm on location in South Lake Tahoe. And as I try to complete a sentence, I notice a mosquito hovering around my arm...

I float all over the place. I have ideas about what I should write, but I get distracted. Such is life. Such is writing.

There is so much to write about. I'm in a second-story room at this hotel on Pioneer Trail. Dad is sitting on the queen size bed watching basketball. I'm sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed-- a hide-away air bed in a sofa contraption that I can't seem to inflate very well. But what the hey, I'm sleeping okay.

We went to the lake today and got our feet wet. Water was too cold for swimming.

There's gotta be something in my head worth writing about.

Nah. I don't think so.

Not tonight.

I'm giving up trying.

Talk amongst yourselves.

The Dream of Life

It's all real.

The first kiss. The radial tear on the cheek of your consciousness. Scents of remembrance.

I check the scar near my tailbone. Still there.

When I was in high school, I had a dream. In the dream, there were a number of compelling images and concepts that were tantalizing, but the one that was most lasting was the experience of not being able to wake up.

I fought with this recurringly. Much like I fight with my editor over and over, within each sentence. But I eventually turned the experience into a story. I did so with the help of my high school English teacher.

It's interesting how as you wake up and get farther and farther away from a dream, even one so memorable and life changing as the one I had then and the one I had last night, or just minutes ago, the glossy, inspiring truth of it all sifts lightly away.

I reworked that story several times, adding plot details and moral dilemmas. My teacher, Mrs. Collup, challenged me to go farther and do more. The parts of the story added up in the end to make a very intense, powerful work. The part that I had captured from the dream was essential to the success of the story, and provided the suspense engine to drive the reader through the plot.

I had a dream mere minutes ago that spanned a lifetime. It dealt with my life; it dealt with my death. The message seemed to be "Live your life." Simple, yet complicated.

I awoke reluctantly, as if wanting more. As if all the answers I needed wrapped up in a colorful tale complete with intrigue and fanfare was not enough.

I'm a changed man. I feel different. After I awoke, I walked quietly through the darkened house, to the back door. I unlocked it and stepped outside. It was quiet, although I lightly sensed in the distance the sound of singing. There was an orange glow to the night. Not much rustling but a rat at 2:45 am. I stood and breathed it in; digested it. Felt the flourish of the nutrients in the air and in time.

What an amazing dream. Fear and loathing with balloons and applause from the back of a sedan.

I remember less and less as time creeps by, but my life is changed. This is a purposeful life. This is a good life. This is my only life. One life to live.

In the final part of the dream, I'm facing sure death, as the others in the car have assembled my treatment, but it isn't working. My doctor is there, as well as another woman and one of my best friends in the world. They're all sitting in the front bench seat of the sedan or taxi cab, I'm not sure which. Then I remember that I'm supposed to administer the medicine through my tracheotomy instead of my mouth. The percentages of chemicals that I need to keep living are reached, and the smoke that I'm breathing changes color from a dull gray to a festive green. Jon Miller of the San Francisco Giants and ESPN provides play-by-play, ending with "...and the ball game is over!" There are balloons and a stadium's worth of applause. Smiles abound.

Fade to black.

Is This Thing On?

I don't know if I can be funny when I try to be funny. Funny happens on its own. It's more funny when it comes out to visit instead of being dragged by the hair or roped up and hauled into the open.

Funny is simple. One of my favorite movies, comedically speaking, of all-time is Monty Python and the Holy Grail. One of my favorite scenes (and there are several) is when the searching Sir Arthur and his gaggle of coconut clapping hop-alongs happen upon a sorcerer. The sorcerer takes command of their attention by displaying his prowess with pyrotechnics. After a dazzling display of explosions and fireworks, striking fear into even the boldest of heart, King Arthur and his men are duly impressed, and are moved to applaud the sorcerer's valor, grit, and exploit.

Those familiar with the story of King Arthur know about Merlin. Surely, this must be our introduction to him in this movie? It is then that King Arthur asks the sorcerer what they should call him-- "What is your name?" After a couple more blasts go off from the pointing of his finger, and echo about the canyon, the sorcerer relents.

"Some call me..." and here, the pause is exquisite.

"Tim?"

Of course. Tim the wizard.

That's funny.

But my own funny. Where does it sit? Where does it originate? And how can I make it want to visit?

A lot of comedy is timing. It's different in writing, in song, in stand-up. So I gotta get the timing right. It's about time. *cue rimshot*

Speaking of time-- the timer's going off. Time to do some other chores. Will have to continue this again later.

Another time.

Until then.

Funny You Should Mention

The last thing I want to do is roll out the barrels and knock knock jokes. I just wanna have fun. Because I'm a girl? No! Guys wanna have fun, too. No, really. And not in a dirty way.

There's something like paint in the totality of the ceiling. I think there's even a verb in every sentence. And yet, it's funny; Funny ain't there. This isn't funny.

There's a light... There's a way to do this. I haven't figured it out yet. I am just trying to keep the typos down and get a point across. But doing it this way starts to make my wrists hurt.

So. Relax. You can't force the funny. Let the funny come to you. Or let the funny come. It will. It always does. Banana. (In case of emergency, drop in a fruity reference).

Where do we go from here? Guava. It's fun to say: Guava. You're starting to smile! Kumquat.

It's working! Give my creation LIFE!!!

Now there's the funny. Young Frankenstein. Mel Brooks. Gene Wilder. There are some quality laughs in those fruity references. Peter Boyle. Madeleine Kahn. Marty Feldman. Terri Garr. Gene Hackman, for crying out loud. Classic comedy, to be enjoyed again and again.

Funny that I'm not sure I spelled their names correctly. Funny that I should care. Funny that I make an effort to care about such minute details again and again.

Comedy is hard. Funny happens.

I want to write. I write for the funny. I enjoy the funny. I love the funny.

Funny is serious business.

The Mean in Meaning

I'm tired. Uninspired. When I open my mouth, poetry doesn't ease its way out. That's how I perceive it.

I don't get poetry. What makes it poetic? It's not the rhyme or the meter or the sublime or the reader. Is it? I don't know. I'm just trying to make it interesting. I figure if I'm interested, perhaps there's somebody else out there who will feel the same way.

Interested?

This is a workout. I'm trying to tone my muscles, tighten the abs up. I want to get to the meat of the matter. Where the meaning matters. Somewhere between the best moment in your life and the moment before your death, when you finally gain the perspective to appreciate this time that we have... to fully negotiate and digest the thrills and fears that are possible, juxtaposed by the same highs and lows that we actually experience.

And then to have a bounty of elations and melancholies, as part of your experience, inordinate visitation notwithstanding. Hard to get the pecs in order when the brain muscle is out of control.

So what the hey am I trying to say? Are we discussing poetry? Mortality? Bi-polar morality? Why does this feel more like a song than a blog post? The sun is shining right into my eyes as I write this. Truth. Warming enlightenment.

I want to keep moving, but I have to keep closing my eyes. The thoughts are so random and secular. Pasted like paper mache over the forms of the words... no, pasted over the forms of the meaning, becoming something a little different when it all dries. A different shade every time you read through it.

There's no business like shoe sales. Now I'm soul searching. What happened to the poetry? What is poetry?

A friend of mine did me a favor and looked over some of my writing for me. He made several comments and suggestions. At one point he had circled a passage and written in the margin: "This is Poetry." Several years have passed and I still don't know how to interpret that.

I guess I should ask him, huh? (Duh.)

When I push through the walls that creep up while I'm trying to write, it is exhilarating. Cathartic. Roman Catholic. With whip cream.

I don't know why it comes out like this, but it does. I'm trying to ride the wave, capture the pure thought, not edit as I write, find the flower and the gem and the golden vein. Celibacy.

Little droplets of spittle, I can't control them. I wipe my mouth but they still jump out at their will. There's a workout going on here! Rattle the cages, make some beer bread, moisten those envelopes! There's a spirit to be had here! Lounging is disqualified. Lame Federal grant program. We want eggs. Ranchero.

I want meaning. Stress it. But I want it to ease out of me, not be dragged scratching and squealing.

Did ya ever wish you had more friends? That you had more time to do for you and not the job, the government, the ever expanding responsibility burden? I know you have. Well, I have.

I'm seriously considering walking away from a very good-paying job with great benefits because I'm insane and I want to prove it. I want to have more time to work in the garage. My garage. I want to write. I want to eat more healthily than I presently do. I want to work in the yards and plant a garden and grow food for my wife and I. I want to get rid of the multitude of distractions and live a simpler life.

But I fear the ramifications of a poor decision. I fear not being able to find a way to make it. We can't financially handle living here, as we are, on only my wife's salary, for more than a few months.

So why the anguish? Why the turmoil? Why leave the security blanket, when it's so comfy and warm and calming? Because I'm being called to make a change. And it's bigger than getting a new haircut or getting a piercing of some sort.

I want to create things out of nothing to add to the abundance and help heal our world. My strengths and skills are in the areas of art and humor. I want to harness my talents and ride on into greater challenges. I've wanted to write for decades. I've even done it now and again. But I want to find a way to be able to do it more, and not have to depend on another job to finance my lifestyle. I feel as though I'm throwing away a large chunk of my life to make the money and have the security that I do.

Is this what coming to terms with "selling out" is like?

Years ago, I chose the path of gainful employment, and it has brought me much joy and prosperity. But somewhere that became not enough.

It's not even because I "hate" my job. It's more that I have a calling to do things elsewhere.

D'ya know what I mean? Albatross.

Polarity Exponent

Okay, so I just recently learned that there is actually a condition known as "tripolar." It's when a person has both bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder.

Yikes. And oops.

I in no way wanted to spoof an actual condition when I chose the name for my blog. I thought I was making something up, being clever. Y'know, I'm bipolar, but I wanna overcome it, be something even better than it. One up it. Try polarity. All dat.

So now I'm kinda torn. I've been building an identity. I'm linked in a couple different places, to other blogs with a lot more traffic than mine. Y'know, I'm on their blog roll. And that's cool.

So I don't wanna change the name. But what of the potential confusion? What if someone who is troubled by tripolar disorder stumbles on my blog while looking for helpful information?

Ready the rimshot.

No, really. What if? Could I be clogging up progress for tripolar disorder sufferers?

Well, it's not my intention to do so. That is for sure. But that isn't enough to solve the problem.

Is it?

I need input. All y'all out there, please weigh in on this one. Even if you've never commented on my blog before. Now's the time to come off the sidelines. Get involved.

Should I change or should I go? (With what I got...) And if I should change-- what should I change to?

I don't even have any alternative ideas right now. Maybe that's best. That way I don't entice or sway opinions. Just think if I were to come up with a super amazing catchy blog name.

Well, I guess that all this would be moot. Because quality is job one. Trumps consumption.

Um, I think that lacks something-- oh yeah, first part, copyright; second part... in need of a sequitur or something...

Oh-- and please don't sue me or anything. Would be a waste of your time anyway. The bank owns my house, I'm drowning in debt, and there's just no there there.

But weigh in with your suggestions.

Remembering Pete

Pete Insel was a cross country runner in college. He had a radio show called “This Licentious Monstrosity” with another good friend of mine. Pete also digested a lot of wine knowledge and experience, having worked in the Main Street Wine Cellar in Grinnell, Iowa, and later, I believe, at The Cannery in San Francisco while attending New College. By this time he had become Peter, but I’ll always remember him first as Pete.

Pete passed away early in the morning a few weeks ago in Michigan. He’d been diagnosed with ALS in May of 2007, while still living near Oakland, CA. At the time of his diagnosis, he was a card dealer for the Oaks Casino. He had an amazing capacity for knowledge– he remembered wineries, vintages, vintage years, Wine Spectator scores, and the like. He was a great resource for finding great deals– great tasting bottles of wine for five or ten bucks that tasted like they should be priced four to five times as much. And he was just as savvy with music, remembering lyrics and playing tunes that I really liked but have still yet to locate.

I lived across the hall from Pete in Norris Dorm my first year at Grinnell College. He and his roommate Tom had suffered through a bad number at the room draw the year before, and had landed back in the decidedly worst dorm on campus. But they made the best of it, designing and building large lofts for each of them, thus opening their space-challenged room into a much more expansive place. And it was unique.

That first year, I went to Chicago with Pete, Tom, and a couple other of their friends, for Fall Break. I’d only been there about a month and a half, so our friendship was very new. We drove the six 0r so hours, sharing driving duties, making jokes, getting to know each other. I took my camera, and at the time saw myself as a budding photo-journalist.

Or something like that. I took this one of Pete and later added the caption “Pete’s driving. Pete’s happy. Pete just ran over a squirrel.”

That was somehow very funny to me at the time. Don’t worry, he didn’t run over a squirrel.

We did however have the occasion to stop at the Cheese Hut.

L to R: Gail, Tom, Me, and Pete

There were many moments in our ensuing friendship that come to mind fondly– playing hacky sack on Mac Field in the warm spring weather, drinking beer and hoping to impress women; late nights/early mornings spent drinking at The Bar or at Link’s, playing pool and/or snooker; off-campus meals of gastronomic genius with fabulous pairings of food and wine; and many a party of great and momentous occasion with little or no first-hand recollection.

Pete was always a kind-hearted, gracious host. Even when I got out of control, he took me under his arm and nurtured me back to earth. There were many times, later in our college experience, where it was just me and Pete, hanging out, drinking, smoking, talking into the morning hours. He graciously shared what he had with me– bottles of wine, finely crafted microbrewed beer, his music, and more as we talked and talked about the world, its problems, and our solutions. We discussed the universal constructs of our personal philosophies and plans to make all things right in the world. And sometimes, if we went too late, my kind host would offer me his couch to sleep off the salty ruminations of the evening (and morning).

For me, Pete will never die. He’s always alive and vibrant in my mind. I still haven’t fully conceived what it is that he went through, and what ALS did to him. At 41, he was taken from this world much too soon, certainly. And I don’t know of a way to force myself through that hellish, disintegrating process that he was forced to live through. I really don’t want to. I’ll just remember Pete as I already do, and mourn the lack of future, new memories. But to try and fathom his battle, I just come up short.

So be it. Rest in peace, my friend. Know you are loved. I hope someday we can play hacky again. Looking forward to it.

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