I was thinking the other day. Fuck isn’t an unpleasant word. The soft eff-sound stays forward in the mouth, not like finger or finch. The crisp kah-sound at the end could obtain a harshness, but it so rarely does. It’s a brief, multi-faceted, one-syllable word that can range from playful to surprised, angry to erotic.
It gets a bad rap, I guess owing to its connection to sexuality. But maybe it’s a word that just needs further research, and a bit of love.
In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet for just a moment, a yellow sky.
– Hurricane, from Hamilton the Musical
When it’s time to prepare for a possible hurricane strike, it’s inevitably nearly too late. Irma was not much of a factor on the East coast of Florida, and honestly, I never thought she would be, though I couldn’t tell you why. I had hoped she would turn out to sea, rather than swipe the Gulf Coast, but here on the Atlantic side of Central Florida it was mostly rain and light winds. And, as with all natural disasters, concern and rushing about.
Hurricanes give us the feeling that humanity is no closer to mastering nature than early man was, coming out of the caves. The raw destructive power of storm systems can undo decades of civil engineering and community building. Flooding, wind damage, downed power lines and exploding transformers. And nature will keep coming.
As I sit in relative darkness, writing by some candlelight on an iPad with attached keypad, I wonder at early civilizations. Save the sound of nearby gas-fueld generators, this powerless state is something that would be typical merely a century ago. Quiet. Alone with thoughts, the sounds of nature (sans fuel-combustion), and seemingly few concerns.
The television is off. It must be, with no power. I listened to some public radio via the phone, but not much. And I sit here, thinking. Considering what tomorrow will bring, when the power is sure to be reinstated.
Why have I taken to writing every month that first post about the books I bought and the books I read? It’s a blatant copying of the format Nick Hornby created for his column in The Believer, and I can’t imagine that I could do it better than him. Yet, I still write the post.
the simple fact is, I do it because I’m searching for my voice. It’s a voice that gets stuck inside me. And when it finally comes out as I hear it, I’ll be doing (what I hope will be) wholly original work. Until then, I play. I experiment.
Neil Gaiman has talked extensively on writing, both about his process and on the craft as a whole. One piece of advice that I find particularly pertinent to this post is a response to a Tumblr question: “…try things out. Enjoy yourself. If you find a writer you like, write like them. And then sound like something else. Write anything. Don’t worry about it being good or read by other people. Just play, and play a lot.”
“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”
-Ira Glass
I’ve reached it, as high as I could,
A Golden Apple, far in the branches.
(They will get that wrong.
No matter. In my mouth
The meat is the same. Juices.)
A juice. Sweeter than any in the Garden.
I open my eyes, closed involuntarily.
Ecstasy in that taste.
Not realizing, I chew my lower lip,
Longing for more.
The air is crisp and I nearly shiver,
Water molecules licking my skin.
Another bite.
My tongue rolls over my lip,
Capturing some escaping nectar.
Laughing, hugging myself, I spin where I stand.
My heart races and an unusual feeling
Rises in my stomach. A flutter.
I shudder,
Knowing my need.
My husband lies in the grass.
He is naked.
My stomach flutters again, and it is good.
I offer him my apple.
He takes it. He eats it.
I do not have to offer him
What else I have.
He takes it.
It is good.
The vast majority of us will never be president. We’ll never be movie stars. We’ll never run Fortune 500 companies, or invent technological advances so profound that they shape human achievement for decades to come.
The vast majority will not become published authors, or produced playwrights. Our canvases or art installations will not be shown in national galleries or private collections. Our musical compositions will not be performed by symphonic orchestras, or sung by operatic professionals.
The truth is, these heights to which we all, at some level, aspire to will be far beyond our reach. However, at one point we’ll look back and see the most important moment in our life. And though it may not hold the immense gravitas of moments in the public arena viewed by millions, it will have been a defining moment in our lives. One that we’ll (hopefully) look back on proudly.
What is that most important moment? Has it happened yet? You already have one, though something more important may come along. Are you proud of that moment? Or would you rather something else takes its place?
We are the heroes of our own stories. Make damn sure the climax is rewarding.
The phone rings. Who? Why?
I look at the screen.
UNKNOWN
I wouldn’t have answered anyway.
They call too much.
UNKNOWN
Or otherwise.
In this darkness,
The glowing face of the phone is unwelcome.
In this silence,
The rat-a-tat-tat of some digital ring is unwelcome.
In my loneliness,
The connection with someone else is unwelcome.
The phone rings again.
Who?
Why?
A gifted and persuasive arts advocate I know once told me of advice he received from his mentor. It had to do with focus.
This arts advocate was doing so much – a musician, a fundraiser, a public speaker. He worked with and for numerous organizations. His mentor gave him this advice:
“You can either be a grenade or a rocket. Imagining that the grenade could explode with the same force that the rocket ignites with, the scattering effect of the grenade will reduce the force of the explosion. You want to be the rocket, taking all the force in the direction you want it to go.”
Same energy, but one goes in all directions, and the other is a straight shot. One singular course. A focused ignition.
I think about this in relation to various decisions we have to make; crossroads that arise in life. Sometimes, when we think we’re on a singular course, we remain tethered to the crossroad, able to go back should failure occur.
But we can’t utilize the momentum if we’re tied down to where we started. It’s only when the tether is released that we can use the force of the rocket.
Sometimes, the untethering can look to observers like irrational behavior.
Steven Pressfield, in Do The Work!, states, “The three dumbest guys I can think of: Charles Lindbergh, Steve Jobs, Winston Churchill. Why? Because any smart person who understood how impossibly arduous were the tasks they had set themselves would have pulled the plug before he even began.”
Pressfield advocates staying stupid. Don’t let rationality get in the way of your creativity. I don’t necessarily agree with his word choice, but the sentiment resonates with me. Stupidity could be described as irrationality. I can think of several times that I’ve acted irrationally, and I know it was when I moved beyond any safety net I had in place. That’s when failures can happen. Often, they do happen.
But it’s also when the most staggering achievements can be reached. That’s why the following questions are so important:
You want to learn to play the piano? Or code a computer? Or write your novel? Get back into shape? Eat better, or learn to cook?
“Do you know how old I’ll be when I get done,” you may ask?
Julia Cameron responds to that question in The Artist’s Way: “The same age you’ll be if you don’t.”
When we lose sight of the crossroads, we turn our gaze to the road ahead, and move unwaveringly towards our destination.
I was cleaning out some drawers today, and found an old note, possibly ten or twelve years old. It made me laugh.
It said: "I’m struggling to write. I’m searching for inspiration in an automobile drive. ’91 Lincoln Town Car around Chicago. Lights, towering buildings."
Not sure what my Town Car had to do with Chicago, because I don't recall ever driving it there. But, it's possible. There were some crazy weekends back then.
The thing that stuck out was the struggling to write. I don't recall ever wanting to be a writer. But I liked writing. Always. I used to write poetry, and stories. I have numerous scripts and longer stories, started or abandoned. Ideas always popped up, but I never took them to fruition.
I was actually taking all these old papers out of the drawer and getting them on my cloud in a document called Collected Junk Writings.
But, in a way, this blog is the creative interpretation of my enjoyment of writing. Things I think about I get down in a post, I leave it up for whoever happens across it, and I'm honing an activity that I like doing.
I'm passionate about so few things right now, in this awkward between state that I'm in. Now I'm looking for a job, having quit my other one. I'm thinking about whether I want to stay in Central Florida or move away. About whether to try and start a Ph.D. program next fall, or wait another year.
All these things rattle on in my head, and still I give this blog weekly attention. Now, it's three posts a week, and I'm ahead (for the most part) by about a week. Which means I'm writing this on Tuesday, and you may not see it until next Friday.
I'm sure that when life comes crashing in, and the Universe points me in that direction, I'll not be so ahead on my blog. I'll probably be scrambling for deadlines.
I love the bit in Terry Pratchett's A Slip of the Keyboard: Collected Nonfiction, where he describes what he calls "A bit of writing about writing."
"Get up, have breakfast, switch on word processor, stare at screen.
Stare at screen some more."
This staring at screen, plus elements of procrastination come in for about the next thirty paragraphs. Finally: "Midnight…"
"Stare at screen. Vaguely aware right hand has hit keys to open new file. Start breathing very slowly. Write 1,943 words. Bed. For a day there, thought we weren't going to make it."
This is my blog. I write I because I like it. It's not an exceptional blog, and it's not terrible. But it's mine, and I get to share with you, the reader.
I turn on the jazz
The city unfolds before my eyes
Night sky with bright lights
Blazing from imaginary windows
Smoke and fog drifts soundlessly
Creeping over weary streets
From my private perch I watch
Listening to the sounds of the night
The song of the city
A tune that echoes in drums and lobes
Different in percussion for every skull
Notes still piping
Slow, vivid and hot
The picture it paints
Across the scape of my eye
Pupil and cornea alive with musical notation
Dancing, streaming, playing raw
Heat, fire, life.
It is where the soul lives
The heart beats
The mind creates
Those moments that cannot stop
But you can never experience again
Once they pass, gone
And you, holding on in the night
Wait to feel it again
See it again
Live it and know again
That it breathes into you
Inspiration
While I watch this happen
Inhaling air, tobacco and sweat
Breathing heavily
Night not cooling my body
Air just promising to break the heat
While my body feels the beat
The rhythm of music long since played
Echoing over these weary streets
And my bleary eyes
Take in the sights
Feeing no pain
And hoping the morning doesn’t come too soon
I want fewer email. I want more messages.
Rather than getting the daily appeals from every organization I’ve ever given to, bought from, volunteered for, etc., etc., send me something worth reading.
We receive way too many emails in our inbox now. It’s not fun. It’s a disaster.
Early days of email were about distant, instantaneous connection. Now it’s about instantaneous selling.
From connection to consumerism. When something loses its ability to connect, only to be replaced by the need to create profit, then it has gone off the rails. It’s not expansion, and it’s not engagement. It’s assault, and it needs to need to stop.
Companies – Stop forcing us to give you our email. Ask for it. Maybe you’ll get it, if we feel it’s worth reading what you have to say. Don’t assume. Many times, we don’t want to hear it.
I want content worth reading. I want an inbox that is less full and more interesting. I want a connection.
Michael's Musings 