Tag Archives: authors

Whisper (Revised)

Above a Whisper

I walk on blades
Of grass around
My father’s grave

Avoiding sunken
Markers careful not
To wake the dead

I want to share news
About a great job
My own place to live

The love of a woman
Who finds me
Worthy of affection

But none of this
Has happened
And it’s getting late

I tell him about
Another mild
Chicago winter

And Vegas picking
The Cubs to win
The World Series

My voice breaks
Like mist
Above a whisper

As birds fly in V-formation
Over headstones
Fixed in solemn rows

***

Above a Whisper (Nervous Lethargy Version)

I walk on blades
Of grass around
My father’s grave

Avoiding sunken
Markers careful not
To wake the dead

I’d like to share news
About a great job
My own place to live

The love of a woman
Who finds me
Worthy of affection

But none of this
Has happened
And it’s getting late

I tell him about
Another mild
Chicago winter

And Vegas picking
The Cubs to win
The World Series

It sounds like I’m
Talking to myself
Above a whisper

As birds fly in V formation
Over headstones
Fixed in solemn rows

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Filed under Poetry

Lake Arlington Larry (Revised)

Ode: Lake Arlington Larry

Here’s to a gentle man
Smiling at suburban strangers
Walking running rollerblading around
Lake Arlington on a Thursday in June

Here’s to a gentle man
With baseball cap crimson hippie hair
An earth-conscious soul and repeat recycler
Sifting through trash cans for plastic gold

Here’s to a gentle man
Drafting mental blueprints
For the New Human Reality
While mothers stretch their legs in yoga pants

Here’s to a gentle man
A stream-of-thought poet
Syncing his watch to the pulse
Of the giant timepiece in the sky

Here’s to a gentle man
Who calls himself Larry and waves
Like a child as if we met eons ago
On different paths to the same eternity

***

Ode: Lake Arlington Larry (Nervous Lethargy Version)

You smiling at suburban strangers
Walking running rollerblading around
Lake Arlington on a Thursday in June

You with baseball cap crimson hippie hair
An earth-conscious soul and repeat recycler
Sifting through trash cans for plastic gold

You the sweaty exercise guru drawing up
Mental blueprints for the New Human Reality
While mothers stretch their legs in yoga pants

You the shirtless Poet of the Moment
Syncing your wristwatch to the pulse
Of the giant timepiece in the sky

You who said today, Hi I’m Larry,
As if we’d met eons ago on
Different paths to the same eternity

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Filed under Poetry

Paperback Editor #2

Yesterday I posted the revised version of the introduction to The Intimacy of Communication. Below I’ve done the same for the afterword.

After Words: Textual Innuendo (Revised 2017)

 “I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.”
—Roland Barthes

We are always after words, embedded in the fabric of language. There’s a mystery to things we can’t put a finger on, a sense of loss in every expression.

When I write I’m seeking your attention. I want you to see me as I see you, in the form of an extended seduction. It’s a quest for recognition without making a scene.

However we approach this book, it doesn’t belong to you or me. In fact it belongs to no one. I’m referring to the communal nature of language. We all use words without possessing them. There’s nothing I can say that you can’t say, because each of us has access to the same database of words. But some words I use, you might use differently, in a manner of speaking.

We’re free to appreciate or mimic another writer’s style. I quote Jean Baudrillard, or the English translations of his native French, throughout this book. He wrote eloquently about seduction, which encouraged me to do the same, invoking his spirit to support my evidence.

Throughout this process I feared the worst. Would words flow or stick in my throat? Was the whole idea good to begin with? At some point I had to plow through the doubt and embrace my project. At some point I had to let my mind go.

I’ve covered many topics in The Intimacy of Communication, but what I’ve intentionally and subconsciously left out haunts each line. Blind spots permeate the text. Subterfuge and misdirection abound. There’s no guarantee friends and family won’t find me out, but who’s to say I’m not hoping to get caught?

Perhaps I’ve revealed too much, but to pique your interest I had to show a little skin. In the end, my intentions here were far from innocent. I had a rendezvous in mind and urged you to come.

After Words: Textual Innuendo (Original 2016)

“I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.”
—Roland Barthes

We are always after words, embedded in the fabric of language. There’s a mystery to things we can’t put a finger on, a sense of loss in every expression.

When I write I’m seeking your attention. I want you to see me as I see you, in the form of an extended seduction. It’s a quest for recognition without making a scene.

However we approach this book, it doesn’t belong to you or me. In fact it belongs to no one.

I’m referring to the communal nature of language itself. We all use words without possessing them. There’s nothing I can say that you can’t say, because each of us has access to the same database of words. But each word I use you might use differently, in a manner of speaking.

We’re free to appreciate or mimic another writer’s style. I quote Baudrillard, or the English translations of his native French, throughout this book. He wrote eloquently about seduction, which encouraged me to do the same, invoking his spirit to support my evidence.

Throughout this process I feared the worst. Would words flow, or swell up in my throat? Was the whole idea good to begin with? At some point I had to plow through the doubt and embrace my project. At some point I had to let my mind go.

I’ve covered many topics in The Intimacy of Communication, but what I’ve intentionally and subconsciously left out haunts each line. Blind spots permeate the text. Subterfuge and misdirection abound. There’s no guarantee friends and family won’t find me out, but who’s to say I’m not hoping to get caught.

Perhaps I’ve revealed too much. Or maybe to pique your interest I had to show a little skin. Either way, my intentions here were far from innocent. I had a rendezvous in mind and urged you to come.

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Paperback Editor #1

I published The Intimacy of Communication last year. As I read through the introduction recently, I found things I wanted to change or eliminate. Below you will find the revised version of the intro, followed by the original. A writer is never done with a book; he or she simply runs out of time.

Introduction: World Processor (Revised 2017)

I started a blog in 2008 called Writing Is Knowing. A year later it became Sharp Left Turns. My purpose has remained the same: to explore complex ideas with passion and wonder. The Intimacy of Communication, a collection of fifty-eight revised Sharp Left Turns posts organized thematically, is an extension of that mission.

The phrase “writing is knowing” comes from a composition theory course I took during my senior year at Elmhurst College. My professor argued that writing is not merely a matter of sharing information, but a vehicle for the creation of new ideas. Writing is a moral endeavor, an attempt to process the world.

I’ve developed several themes on my blog, including the notion of authentic communication. I define authentic communication as two or more people engaged in meaningful, fully present, device-free conversation. It involves empathy and mutual recognition that texting fails to provide.

How did my smartphone become an object of desire? When does anxiety at the thought of putting down my tablet constitute an attachment disorder?

Is there space for intimacy in a hyper-connected world?

French philosopher Jean Baudrillard wrote about the simulated nature of reality in our image-driven global society. We’ve mastered our environment through the magic of technology, but the efficiency of machines threatens to lull humanity to sleep. Later in his career Baudrillard sided with “the evil genie of the object” in an ironic quest to chart the demise of human agency. My favorite Baudrillard book, The Ecstasy of Communication, inspired the title of this book.

Baudrillard has provided intellectual refuge in my darkest moments. And there are many dark moments. I was diagnosed with depression twenty years ago, as a high school sophomore. Although some symptoms vary depending on my body’s reaction to stress, there’s a persistent fog in my eye, a twitch in my shadow when I’m perfectly still. The constant worrying, excessive guilt, debilitating self-doubt—my depression is a life-threatening illness. Even on my best days it dreams up new ways to bring me down.

Depression is a spiritual affliction. A dis-ease of the soul. Medication and therapy are part of a dynamic, lifelong healing process that also requires patience and surrendering control. Recovery is a moment-to-moment battle, and I commend survivors with wounds both seen and unseen for continuing to fight. I hope my story challenges misconceptions about mental illness and encourages others to speak their truths.

Can a blog support authentic communication? Can a book? Addressing subjects like psychology, politics and philosophy may sound like an esoteric exercise, but a contemplative approach to life has real-world implications. Attuned to the frequency of instant messages, we must consider our words carefully. Words mean more than we know. They break our bones like sticks and stones. But even at their most poetic, in the service of profound truths, words can’t account for love or kindness, or quantify the soul.

Introduction: World Processor (Original 2016)

“If anything, I’m a metaphysician, perhaps a moralist, but certainly not a sociologist.”
—Jean Baudrillard

I started a blog in 2008 called Writing is Knowing. A year later it became Sharp Left Turns. My purpose has remained the same: to explore complex ideas with passion and wonder. The Intimacy of Communication, a collection of fifty-eight revised Sharp Left Turns posts organized thematically, is an extension of that mission.

The phrase “writing is knowing” comes from a composition theory course I took during my senior year at Elmhurst College. My professor argued that writing is not merely a matter of sharing information, but a vehicle for the creation of new ideas. Writing is a moral endeavor, an attempt to process the world.

I’ve developed several themes on my blog, including the notion of authentic communication. I define authentic communication as two or more people engaged in meaningful, fully present, device-free conversation. It involves empathy and mutual recognition that texting fails to provide.

How did my smartphone become an object of desire? When does anxiety at the thought of putting down my tablet constitute an attachment disorder?

Is there space for intimacy in a hyper-connected world?

French philosopher Jean Baudrillard (1929-2007) shared my concerns. He wrote about the simulated nature of reality in an image-driven global society. We’ve mastered our environment through the magic of technology, but the efficiency of machines threatens to lull humanity to sleep.

Later in his career Baudrillard sided with “the evil genie of the object” in an ironic quest to chart the demise of human agency. One of my favorite Baudrillard books, The Ecstasy of Communication, inspired the title of this book.

Baudrillard was brilliant, which is to say he was nuts. Trained as a sociologist, Baudrillard traversed multiple fields: philosophy, politics, psychology, literature, semiotics. He’s provided intellectual refuge in my darkest moments.

And there are many dark moments. I was diagnosed with depression over twenty years ago, as a high school sophomore. Although some symptoms vary depending on my body’s reaction to stress, there’s a persistent fog in my eye, a twitch in my shadow when I’m perfectly still. The constant worrying, excessive guilt, debilitating self-doubt—my depression is a life-threatening illness. Even on my best days, in the most serene or quiet moments, it’s dreaming up new ways to bring me down.

Depression is a spiritual affliction. A dis-ease of the soul. Medication and therapy are part of a dynamic, lifelong healing process that also requires patience and surrendering control. Recovery is a moment-to-moment battle, and I commend survivors with wounds both seen and unseen for continuing to fight. I hope my story helps break the stigma surrounding mental illness and encourages others to speak their truths.

Blogging helps me cope when I’m open about my struggles. New posts serve as preemptive strikes against future distress, and the act of sharing combats an impulse to isolate. This book ups the ante. It’s a challenge to be vulnerable in a different format.

Can a blog support authentic communication? Can a book? Addressing subjects like psychology, politics and philosophy may sound like an esoteric exercise, but a contemplative approach to life has real-world implications. Attuned to the frequency of instant messages, we must consider our words carefully. Words mean more than we imagine, and contrary to the old playground adage, they can hurt us more than sticks and stones. But even at their most poetic, in the service of profound truths, words can’t account for love or kindness, or quantify the soul.

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Filed under Philosophy

So To Speak

I can’t write anymore. I hire an editor. She recommends a therapist.

I arrive at the front desk. I share a recent dream in which I tell a stranger nobody understands what I’m trying to say. The stranger agrees but this resolves nothing.

The receptionist says she’s not a therapist. She will be with me in a moment. I give her my name. She looks thirsty. I’m talking about the receptionist. I am told in no uncertain terms to keep my voice down.

I author a book from front to back in a waiting room. I quit dreaming.

I tell a stranger I’m vulnerable. I don’t recommend announcing this in a dark alley after midnight. Or on a first date if you’re into meeting people. A blog is fine. I’m done with books.

I am vulnerable. I write books nobody reads. Books nobody bothered to write but me. Nobody understands what I’m trying to write. Books aren’t blogs aren’t dreams. I fire my editor. This resolves nothing.

I enter a stranger’s dream and say nobody understands what it’s like to tell people on the internet you’re vulnerable. He’s angry with me. I bite my tongue. He throws his voice.

Books are for dummies. I buy mine on Amazon. Books are finished.

A stranger tells his therapist in my dream I don’t understand what I’m trying to say. I agree and this resolves everything. I decide to write cryptic blogs to throw off people on the internet.

I fuck my editor in a dark alley. She says I’m a bad writer. Repeat after me. I’m a bad rider.

I take back my book. Every word.

I write what I know. I quit therapy because I’m too smart for this shit.

I am dumber than a blog post. Someone buys my book and it arrives by drone.

I am thirsty. An author waiting for my therapist tells me he can’t write any more. I ask him to elaborate. This adds words to the universe. Words aren’t people aren’t drones. I see right through the universe. My book drops. Nobody picks it up.

A stranger will see me now. My therapist asks me to elaborate at the same time I ask her to elaborate. She doesn’t get paid to analyze dreams.

I ask my therapist for water. She gives me a voice. So to speak.

She says I am valuable. Repeat after me. I am vulnerable.

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Filed under Meta-Blog, Philosophy

Buy Nervous Lethargy Now

Buy my second book here.

Thank you to everyone who supports my writing. This was a fun process. Here is the Amazon product description:

“Poetry is the language of language.” So writes Charles B. Snoad in the introduction to Nervous Lethargy, a collection of poetry obsessed with the power of words. Snoad asks difficult questions about the nature of truth, the existence of God, the joys and frustrations of desire and falling in love, and the persistence of anxiety in today’s technology-driven global society. The highly sensitive, self-aware speakers in these poems take readers on an existential journey through tragedy, hope, and longing—attuned to the beauty and absurdity of modern life. That feeling when your head spins so fast you can’t get out of bed—this is Nervous Lethargy.

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Nervous Lethargy: Second Proof

My proof copy of Nervous Lethargy arrived the other day. It looks great, but I did make some changes. A second proof copy should ship today. Hopefully, I can go live next week.

The low-resolution image I was worried about looks fine. The spine displays the title and my name fine. Many of the changes I made were minor: some words needed hyphens; a word originally written as two words is actually one. I made a few capitalization errors.

There were two big issues I’ve now fixed. First, a word on the back cover was misspelled. My bad. Second, I wasn’t thrilled with the original pagination. In the first proof I started the first page of the introduction as Page 13, because there are 12 pages of front material. Now the 12 pages of front material have Roman numerals and page one of the introduction is Page 1. Honestly, the pagination process occupied a lot of my time, mostly because I want things to look right, even though the previous format is not wrong, just less common than including Roman numerals.

I must have read the whole book a thousand times. I’m sure next month or a year from now I’ll find something I could’ve changed, but overall I’m proud of my effort. At some point I have to let the book go and trust that I’ve done my best. We’re now one big step closer to the release.

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Filed under Meta-Blog, Poetry