I woke up last night dreaming about George Plimpton, the writer, "professional amateur," editor, actor, bird watcher, and raconteur who left for the next dimension in 2003.  I used to especially enjoy watching him on the talk shows, so relaxed and engaged but without a mean bone in him; he always looked like he was having a good time, enjoying whatever was coming his way, as interested in his interlocutor as he or she was in him.

     It occurs to me what a perfect "ego ideal" he is for blogging.  I came to blogging during the last Presidential election, determined to try to do something to prevent another disaster like the election of GW Bush.  It terrified me to think it could happen again and I couldn't say I did anything to stop it.  That made my message a bit "intense" on Salon.com.

      When Joan Walsh recommended I join the beta for OS I was reluctant at first.  All the action was on Salon, but finally I realized this was my chance.  I didn't have to just respond to what somebody else was saying, but could take that first giant step myself.  At last, an outlet without a "gatekeeper," and the immediate gratification of readers, raters, commentors, and eh gads--subscribers--not to mention the advertisers who came later.  (though I've never gotten a cent and thought twice about the ads.)  That was over a hundred posts ago and a gazillion comments.

     It's a big promise and a high expectation for someone whose identity is inseparable from writing--as mine is.  It was even better than print journalism because the output is kept on file--so if anybody asks: Are you a writer?  The proof is right here.  And if they ask: What do you write about?  That's just a few more clicks away.  How much better can it get for Christ's sake?  The material doesn't fall into the endless abyss and if you realize later it was a mistake--you can erase it!  I'm not even mandated to have you see me leaking cheese.

     Also, I can write any damn thing I want from any slant I want.  There's no pigeonholes.  I can do op-ed, memoir, movie and book reviews, short stories, poetry, manifestos, obituaries, processes, talk about religion and sex, say fuck, lob the odd bomb at the status quo; it's literary nirvana.  And not only that, but the assholes with their tongue wrapped around their knees can be excised as well!

      I made most bloggers mistake at first: I took it much too seriously.  I had to "set the record straight."  Get out all the stuff that was festering after all the rejection and neglect.  That was certainly the original motivation--unconscious as it was.  But one day that's over.  The repetition is too obvious--too boring.  Once the job is done; it doesn't have to be done again.

     Then, one has to find a perspective--an approach that broadens the palette.  Something that can be put into words, even if it only evolves slowly--one post at a time--until a line finally emerges and sticks out and seems worth saying like "I woke up last night dreaming about George Plimpton."  And then you get that sucker DOWN baby, you know what I'm sayin', with at least a reasonable expectation that one other human being on the planet will get it. Whalla!

      It doesn't work to always be trying to right a wrong world, or finally tell the most tragic story there is to tell.  The truth is that I don't know what's going to come next, and that's the most fun of all--fun.  Not knowing: that's what "orders" my mind best--removes me from the anticipation of what anybody else is going to think or say.  Fun.  It doesn't mean I have to give the demagogues a rest--only the demagogue in me.  I have no other "rule" as a blogger than my own pleasure.

     Another quality of Plimpton's I enjoyed, unlike his friend Norman Mailer, was an easily recognizable selflessness that didn't allow him to fall victim to his own hype.  In those interviews, he often seemed to blush when the subject turned directly to him and it was his time to sell himself.  His profile wasn't more important than his work--and in some way I think that provides, or "should" provide in a moral universe a staying power the masters (I almost wrote monsters) of glitz can't provide when they're no longer around to blow their horn.

      I think that's what George Plimpton was about and why he came to me in that dream.  A year ago I had the opportunity to meet his son Taylor at the annual Holiday Art Fair at my Zendo.  I bought his book "The Dreaded Feast" a collection of prize essays about the "dark" side of Christmas and he bought one of my Zen sculptures for his mother--George's first wife.  (You really can't make the good stuff up.)

     At the end of the dream, I'm admitted into a beautiful room in George's building filled with all sorts of treasures from the Renaissance.  After all, that's what he was--a Renaissance man. They are a joy to look at and give me a feeling it's okay to leave something behind for no other reason than it makes me feel good. 

     Thank you George for stopping by.  I hope you come again; I'm going to need some pointers, no doubt.  And thank you Taylor; it was nice meeting you.  I think it's called karma.