In the very early Fifties I saw Alec Guinness and Yvonne DeCarlo in “The Captain’s Paradise.” I believe that is the title. What is important is that the bigamous captain, Guniness, has a wife in two ports. When he observes one in his presence he whispers the above title words to a friend when asked what is unnerving him. Chesterton coined that bon mot. It always stayed in mind because of the felicity of its expression and the unflappability of the stereotypical Englishman, especially Sir Alec with that clipped English of his. I set out to find its source years later, I imagine, and memorized it. Always intriguing, is it not? what we remember as a child, what leaves an impression, what captures our fancy.
The more I write about my childhood the more I am recognizing how latently gifted I was while so manifestly dead to the world. Integration was years off. And, indeed, in my present book there are essays that attest to that. I am pleased in an interesting way, given the family I was”raised” in, that I was no dope, in fact a kind of jewel in the rough. In those years I rarely if ever spoke to myself which I find a conclusive testament to anyone who wishes to become aware of self and other. A day does not go by now in which I do not engage myself in dialogue. And why isn’t that taught in “schools?” Your homework tonight is to have a ten minute conversation with yourself. Report back with your notes of that dialogue. What fodder for the good teacher, for insight, meaningful writing and awareness. Teachers as clodhoppers have no idea of what I have just said.
And so I am being patiently expectant as I have mailed out my book to reviewers across the globe — France, Australia, Malaysia, China, Scotland, England and India as well as to reviewers within the USA. I get a kick out of the idea that my book has arrived in another continent, another clime, that the book is an extension of my self in some far off and often exotic land. Quirky, but it is my quirk. Eventually the reviews will creep in like cat’s paws and I am wondering what impression the book will have on over forty or so minds. It is a crap shoot and I am not overly concerned, for the work is over and I need only to get feedback. Feedback makes you reconsider what you have written, I think, but in no way would I redo what I set out to accomplish, which was to turn memory and reminiscence into something to consider and reconsider at this time in my life.What good is anything, event, pleasure, sex, food, politics, love if it is not in some way metabolized mentally, psychologically or physically.
What is also refreshing is the absence of how well it is being marketing, how well I am being “received ” — what am I SETI awaiting a signal? I am more entranced with the notion that varied and sundried personalities have engaged my essays at some level and are moved to write about that. For me part of being published is not all the hullabaloo we see on book blogs, by bloggers and marketers, chivvying the writer to get out there, be seen and known, to sell, sell, sell. I view all this as the smelly nap on the American dog of business, so fatiguing when I think about all the energy it entails. When I do get infected by this toxin it creates levels of anxiety I can do well without. It is as if there is a massive capitalistic church bell that peals throughout the land that tonally rings out — DO MORE.
Indeed, I associate to the writing on the wall: Mene mene tekel upharsin. Thou hast been weighed and found wanting. As I struggle to get read and reviewed in ways that are comfortable for me, I ward off the conditioning that all writers are subjected to, often by other writers. I work at not being consumed by what the shoulds are. Tricky, because at times one feels, I feel, that I am not doing “enough” to hawk my work.
The sweeter aspect of having produced another book is that friends and relatives will respond, I hope, among these is an attorney, a former therapy client, my psychotherapeutic supervisor as well as close friend, a teacher from my psychoanalytic school, the editor of my book who is also a poet and editor of an ezine, a complete stranger who I engaged when blood was drawn by her at a lab, two acquaintances at a local gym that I do laps in, a former high school colleague, and whoever else is around the corner. As I hear from these individuals it will touch different keys within, play idiosyncratic tunes for each is so different.
At this moment I am experiencing a lull. I am assembling the energy particles for another run at getting reviewed; however, the first reviews will be enabling, I hope. If not, I go on. And how do I do that? The next book is already at the gate.
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