I haven't thought about the nature of apologies (although I am sure that Montaigne or Bacon probably did: they seem to have an essay dedicated to just about everything). However, given the title of this entry, I suppose if one is apologizing to someone that person or persons should be a known entity. In this instance, since there really is no one particular person I am apologizing to,  it comes down to myself.

But for what, you ask? Why are you apologizing to yourself?

I am apologizing for the fact that, as I near the first quarterly review of Scribblings and Bibblings, I have not set out to do what I initially intended to do. And that is to blog at least three times per week on subjects concerning literature, the nature of writing, books, and the various directions and those subjects can take, the tangential lines that all lead back to writing and reading or art in its myriad forms.

I originally started this blog as a means to continue writing almost daily and to create a growing marketing platform for my (hopefully) published works, and as I attempt to go about the process of breaking through into the publishing industry, either via employment or as a published author. Or, perhaps, more ambitiously, both. This has not been the case.
As is often the case, I have created obstacles for myself, some of which make sense, others of which are of my own choosing. Falling in the former category are those entries that do not get written as they require a little research and also a little fine-tune writing, much more than the random thoughts and natterings of a live blog entry can convey. However, there is nothing that prevents me from living up to the title of the blog itself and inundating my scant reading audience with my own scribblings and bibblings.

(And oh how most of my thoughts resemble scribblings, And O how I can bibble!)

For all of that I owe an apology to myself for not keeping up with what I intended.

Now, on to the second part of this title: resolutions. How do I intend to resolve this issue? By writing, and by eliminating that need to present to the world a polished product each time out.
(Internal voice: Did you really just refer to your previous posts as polished?
Me: Yes, but not in the complete sense of the word, as a diamond. Just polished like an old shoe, making it look not as dirty and scuffed up as it really is
Internal voice: That's still a pretty generous definition to be giving youself for these posts.
Me: Oh, shut up, internal voice.)

I, as the creator and primary contributor to Scribblings and Bibblings, hereby announce that I will no longer be holding back in terms of posts. I will attempt to ensure that each post, regardless of content, will be in the roughest and most incipient form possible. Some will be a bit more polished than others, as I do not want to come across as a nattering fool, however, many of the updates from here on out will be in first draft form. These will be the journal entries that become the stories, the essays, the books, the more polished blog posts that sit in the ethers of the internet. tiny bytes of wisdom or miscellany just hoping for someone to grab on to. 
I also vow to put aside my compulsion that each post be complete: beginning, middle, end. Some posts from here on out may not be cogent, they may only be a few words or sentences long. However, they will be much more frequent.
As such, I will shortly make a post regarding the nature of live writing over polished writing, whether an audience wants to read the nascent stages of a story, the outtakes, the journals, the idea stage; or whether they would rather read the completed, polished versions.

That is my resolution.

I also vow to hope to never have to apologize to myself for the lack of blog posts again.

That, dear readers, is what I solemnly vow to attempt. I do not vow to succeed. But I vow to attempt those blogging resolutions.
 
 
While writing the last entry on the revision process, I was reminded of a poem I wrote in undergrad. It is a mediocre poem, however at the time, tainted with undergraduate brio, I thought it was brilliant, and I thought I was on my way to becoming the next Rilke, Neruda, Ferlinghetti.
The one aspect of the poem that retained a good idea was the fact that I kept every revision of it, including the original long-hand version, and every cross-off and each line that I X'ed out with my typewriter. (Yes, I used a typewriter in undergrad. I'm not dating myself; I'm just indicting my inability to embrace technology in a timely manner.)

I have included all those versions below as a means to show how, even in a mediocre poem, a piece evolves over many version. The last version of the poem, I revised in the process of this entry, almost fifteen years since the last revision.

All testimony to the fact that a piece of writing will never fully be completed by its author. We just choose to stop working on it:

Sunflower (version 1)

a sunflower
painted with meticulous strokes
on a coffee cup
(evoking memories of Ginsburg and of Blake and
and of Blake and Kerouac from him)
memories
of running through a field
blowing
with pursed lips
from the depths of my lungs
the spokes and feathers and petals and leaves
off
each and every
dandelion
geranium
pussy-willow  &%$@*-willow
sunflower
that crosses my path
into the air
decapitating the flowering
with each swipe of my arms
 

Sunflower (version 2)

A sunflower
Painted with delicate meticulous strokes
on a hand-crafted ceramic cup
evoking memories of Ginsburg
(and of Blake and Kerouac from him)
evoking memories of
childhood
of running carelessly through an open field
blowing
with pursed lips
with breathes mustered from the depths of my lungs
pulmonary sacks filling like a blowfish
like Dizzy Gillespie’s cheeks
the spokes and feathers and and petals and leaves
off
each and every
dandelion
geranium
brambleweed
sunflower
that crosses my wayward path
into the stanch fragile air
blowing
with unmitigated ferocity
each leaf from its burgeoning stem
decapitating the poor harmless vegetation
with each pendulous swipe
of my arms
mouth sustained in an oblate grin
laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing
and running aimlessly after
each dandelion puff floating pathlessly in the air
each sunflower
running and laughing the whole way through
my golden field
my harbinger of spright
sits atop my paper-strewn
desk
sturdy base
slowly seeping its imprint
into the grain


Sunflower (version 3)
 
A sunflower
painted with meticulous strokes
evoking memories of Ginsburg
(and of Blake and Kerouac from him)
of childhood
running through an open field
blowing
with pursed lips
from the depths of my lungs
the spokes and feathers and petals and leaves
off
each and every
dandelion geranium pussy-willow sunflower
that crosses my path
decapitating them flowering
with each swipe
of my arms
mouth in an orbicular roundish grin
laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing
and running after
each dandelion puff
floating in the air
each sunflower
running and laughing the whole way through
my golden field
sits atop my
paper-strewn desk
seeping
its imprint
Into the grain
 

Sunflower (version 4)

a sunflower
painted with meticulous strokes
on a coffee cup
evoking memories (of Ginsberg
and of Blake and Kerouac from him)
of childhood
of running
through an open field
blowing
with pursed lips
from the depths of my lungs
the spokes and feathers and petals and leaves
off
each and every
dandelion            geranium             pussy-willow      sunflower
that crosses my path
decapitating them
with each swipe
of my arms
mouth in a roundish grin
laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing
and running after
each dandelion puff
Each sunflower
running and laughing the whole way through
my golden field
sits atop
my paper-strewn
desk
seeping its imprint
imprint
into the
grain.


Sunflower (version 5)

a sunflower
painted with meticulous strokes
on a coffee cup
evoking memories (of Ginsberg
and of Blake and Kerouac from him)
of childhood
of running
through an open field
blowing
with pursed lips
from the depths of my lungs
the spokes and feathers and petals and leaves
off
each and every
dandelion            geranium             pussy-willow      sunflower
that crosses my path
decapitating them
with each swipe
of my arms
mouth in a roundish grin
laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing
and running after
each dandelion puff
floating in the air
each sunflower
running and laughing the whole way through
my golden field
sits atop
my paper-strewn
desk
seeping
its imprint
into the
grain.

 
Sunflower (Version 6 – edited in the process of this entry)

a sunflower
painted with meticulous strokes
on a coffee cup
evoking memories (of Ginsberg
and of Blake and Kerouac from him)
of running
through an open field
blowing
the spokes and feathers and petals and leaves
off each and every
dandelion            geranium             pussy-willow      sunflower
that crosses my path
each swipe of my arms
mouth in a roundish grin
laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing
and running after
each dandelion puff
floating in the air
through my golden field
sits atop
my paper-strewn
desk
seeping
its imprint
into the
grain.


Picture