Speaking (of) Poetry

Tea: Mixed Berry Green

Music: Evanescence, "Bring Me to Life"

Time: Almost midnight.

I can't sleep. So instead of reading myself into dreamland, I'm going to a late night poetry reading and recital at a friend's apartment.

It starts at midnight. Who knows when it will end?

I need verse more than sleep right now, though. There's a piece, taken from a walk in a vineyard, that hasn't been spoken aloud in years.

I think it's time.

Re-Versifying

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: A Flock of Seagulls, "Space Age Love Song"

Time: Night.

I've had a lot of words in my life lately -- but precious little poetry. I haven't been reading it much, haven't been hearing it much, and definitely haven't been writing it much.

That has to change. Poetry does things for me that no other form of writing does. Whether I'm appreciating someone else's or trying to create my own, poetry gets my mind working in unexpected directions.

It leaps and fidgets, paces and dances, walks half-lit streets and throws burned-out light bulbs into Dumpsters just to hear the glass shatter.

And I miss that ...

So, today, I started workshopping poetry. Nothing huge, just two writers sending words to each other. Over the coming weeks, we'll play with themes and forms and imagery. We'll tear things up, mix the scraps and stitch them back together.

It won't always be fun. Writing is a joy, but it isn't always fun. But when it works -- especially when poetry works -- it's nothing short of amazing.

So ... let the re-versifying begin.

This Post Could Not Be Completed as Dialed.

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Electric Light Orchestra, "Mr. Blue Sky"

Time: Almost midnight.

There's a saying: "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans."

I'd planned a longish bit of musing on the question of whether it's acceptable to give less than full effort on anything. Is phoning it in a needful survival mechanism, to keep one's brain from exploding from constant effort? Or is it a sin -- in the strictest sense of the word -- not to do one's best in everything, as though doing it for God?

So, of course, my browser went blooey for several hours, and I find myself choosing between trying to recreate the full mental text -- which included the names "Jackson Pollock" and "Pele" -- or leaving it for another day.

Would that count as phoning in this post? Or does being tired entitle me to say I gave it what I had, when I had it?

I don't know. But if I don't get to bed soon, I'll be sleeping by half measures.

So, I think, I'm going to hit my pillow with everything I have. After I put my phone on to recharge, of course.

I Should Be So Lucky

Tea: Blueberry

Music: House of Pain, "Jump Around"

Time: Night.

The Chinese New Year has arrived -- the Year of the Ox -- and I haven't done anything auspicious yet.

I can't afford new chopsticks, and nothing I bought at the grocery store today was red (unless the Roma tomato counted, and that might have been offset by the four jars of peanut butter.) Four is an inauspicious number, you see -- but at 45 cents a jar, after the coupon, I can live with that.

I haven't eaten turnips -- but wait. I have some left over turnip bisque in the freezer, and no supper plans tomorrow.

Better late than never, I suppose.

Book Return

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: REM, "Driver 8"

Time: Night.

I think I have a poltergeist. It loves books. Either that, or it decided I was reading too many at one time and should focus my efforts.

See, I have a copy of Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job. I've been reading it, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's Good Omens and Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses. Yes, concurrently. If I don't have at least two books going at once, I feel something's wrong.

The poltergeist apparently doesn't mind if I have one fiction and one nonfiction piece on my plate at once, because it left me the Ackerman. I'm guessing it decided two whacked-out novels with Death as a character was just too much.

I finished the Pratchett/Gaiman last night. So, of course, the Moore reappeared today. I wonder what would happen if I took up Coyote Blue (also by Moore) while continuing to read A Dirty Job?

Then again ... maybe I don't want to know.

There's Someone You Should Meet ...

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Potato Moon, "Let's Ride"

Time: Night.

It's Sunday. Apparently, I have been granted divine favor and allowed to log into Blogspot.

I have a friend who's an expert matchmaker. Not in the "He's a nice guy, you'll like him" sense. She knows people in all walks of and stations in life, and delights in putting them together in mutually beneficial combinations. It's not schmoozing. It's not name-dropping. It's something far purer and a lot more fun to watch.

I've seen her do it countless times. Each time, I thought, "It would be kind of cool to be able to do that, but I'll never be that sort of resource."

And then ...

Not too long ago, I started talking to a friend at my "regular"church about the church I sometimes attend on Sunday evenings. Yes, the bar church. Before long, my friend had linked up with the pastor of the new church, and now they're jointly recruiting volunteers to do laundry for homeless people.

I write about art and artists, which also brings me into contact with people who book shows. As it turned out, one curator was looking for a fiber artist and I had just written about a fiber artist. Now, she has a show booked for this fall -- and the same curator is looking to book another artist about whom I wrote.

None of this reflects any great level of connectedness on my part. It's a matter of believing in people and promoting them -- which is exactly what my matchmaking friend does. There's a joy in that, which I hadn't felt before.

I kind of like it. More than that, I like for good things to happen to people.

I just wish I'd started sooner.

A Game Worth Forfeiting

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: Real Life, "Catch Me I'm Falling"

Time: Night.

I really like a lot of games.

I like Scrabble, and chess, and backgammon. ("Like" probably isn't a strong enough word for Scrabble.)

But I don't like the "You said something that stung me, so my words have to hit back" game.

I've played it. I'm pretty good at it, which is not a good thing. But it's hard to give up. There's a certain cold satisfaction in swatting a word-volley that hits its mark.

Again, that's not a good thing. The points in this game are poisoned splinters, working their way in long after the sound of the words has faded. The longer they stay in, the more they fester and the more care it takes to remove them. Some never come out. They become part of us.

And it isn't only the scored-upon person who is injured. To hurt another is to hurt oneself, even if the damage isn't immediately apparent.

I don't think it's possible to quit this game entirely. I'm human (on my better days). I know others are, too. We react when we're hurt. But it is possible, I believe, to acknowledge we've been hit without seeking to strike back. That has to be my goal, even if I don't always achieve it

And if I "lose" the exchange, what have I really lost? A chance to damage someone else, and myself?

I'll take that chance.

With All My Wordy Goods ...

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Jerry Douglas, "Birdland"

Time: Night.

"Trust" is a word with more levels than a good-sized apartment building.

I trust my neighbors not to come over and help themselves to my TV when I go off leaving the house unlocked. Beyond that, I trust them to call the police if they see someone they don't know rummaging around.

I trust that the 911 operator will pick up, if that call has to be made, and I trust the authorities to get here quickly.

If the burglar has knocked me on the head, I trust the emergency medical technicians to get me to the hospital and the doctors and nurses there to care for me competently and professionally.

And if I've been hit really, really hard, I trust the nice people who'll get my body to send it to a medical school, where it can do some good.

But I wouldn't trust any of them with my words. My life and health and safety, yes, but not my words.

To hand over copy to another person, and trust that person to make it better without stripping away the writer's voice, is a step some writers can never take. They might submit to editing, but grudgingly -- and their work suffers for it. Conversely, some editors are unworthy of that trust. They put in mistakes. They change the writer's vision to fit their own. They hand down their judgements from on high and will brook no dialogue.

I've been fortunate enough to find trustworthy eyes for my own work, and to have been entrusted with the task of helping to shape others' writing. I'm grateful on one hand, mindful on the other.

After all, all we writers have are words. We have to take care of them ... and each other.

Time to Pull Together

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: U2, "Scarlet"

Time: Night.

By now, everything having to do with the Inauguration has been hashed, rehashed, sliced, diced and julienne fried.

Yes, it's historic. Yes, it's meaningful. Yes, it's the Mountaintop Experience.

But you know what?

None of it means squat if we don't all get up tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and put in the work required to make this country (and the world at large) better.

That means doing good for people who can't do anything for us in return, for no other reason than that it's the right thing to do. It means looking at each other as human beings worthy of respect, regardless of our differences. It means giving up what we think we deserve sometimes, so others can have their basic needs met from day to day..

I'd like to think we can do it. I think we have the potential. After thousands of years of humanity getting in its own way, though, I wouldn't exactly say we have history on our side.

For all that, I'm not cynical. I'm hopeful, and I know I'm not alone. The question is whether we still have the strength as a people to forge that hope into action.

The only way to find out is to try.

Bring Your Own Raven

Tea: Chocolate Orange

Music: King Crimson, "Indoor Games"

Time: Night.

Heavyish posts the last couple of days. With the inauguration tomorrow and MLK Day today, the blogosphere is already serious enough.

(Not that that's a bad thing.)

But tonight, I'm in the mood for something lighter. I am in the mood for ...

Edgar Allan Poe. It's his birthday, you know. The big 2-0-0.

So, I'm going to log off and read for a bit. I have a book with all of his stories and poems. You should, too.

But in case you don't, here's a bit of bedtime reading from the master:

MS Found in a Bottle

For of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"

Time: Night.

Christians, of which I am (or at the least aspire to be) one, are told we should have childlike faith.

Then we're told to shut up, listen and accept, because that's what good kids do.

This is what's known, or should be known, as an Epic Theology Fail.

Have you been around real children? They ask questions. Over and over. About everything.

What's that? What does that word mean? Why did that man do that? Why? Why? Why?

Children throw themselves into their interests. When I was in grade school, I read everything I could find on ghosts, dinosaurs and Bigfoot. (Yeah, I was a weird kid.) I couldn't get enough, even if I did have trouble sleeping sometimes.

And when they see something wrong, they'll let you know about it -- and they know what needs to be done.

You won't hear, That lady looks hungry. Let's tell him he's going to hell if he doesn't accept Jesus right now! or Look, she fell down and she's bleeding. Let's go hand her a tract and ask her if she has found God yet! from a four-year-old.

Here's what you'll hear:

That man's cold. We should give him a coat.

That woman's lonely. Someone should go sit by her.

That little boy is crying. Let's help him.

That's the faith of a child: Open to joy and quick to offer solace in sorrow, quick to make a new friend or forgive an old one, voraciously seeking knowledge and unafraid to ask the hard questions in order to get it.

Does that mean maturity is somehow bad? Absolutely not. There's a world of difference between childlike and childish. But wonder, fairness and curiosity don't inhibit growth. They foster it.

Were I a preacher, there might be a sermon in that.

From the "We Wonders, Precious" File

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Rush, "Subdivisions"

Time: Night.

Here's my question chain of the day:

What constitutes true forgiveness? Does it mean forgetting the wrong done? If so, how is it possible to forget -- not file away, not set aside, but lose all memory of -- something which leaves a scar? Isn't the scar itself a reminder?

I don't have answers. I have hopes, and I have desires, and I have aspirations.

But I don't have answers.

Good Night, Christina

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla

Music: Newsboys, "Entertaining Angels"

Time: Night.

Andrew Wyeth died today.

I do believe, as a friend says, that "One death is all deaths." But for me, the meaning of that statement changes when an artist dies.

The work lives on, of course (and often shoots up in price, which makes collectors happy). And it's not that artists are more intrinsically valuable than other people. But the unique vision behind the art is gone -- and that can be neither reproduced nor replaced.

Bugged

Tea: Mixed Berry Green

Music: The Doobie Brothers, "Black Water"

Time: Night.

Sometimes, I picture cold and flu bugs at a convention. The keynote speaker starts his/her/its PowerPoint, and my picture comes up over the words: "Find the Easy Target."

Last night and today, a fresh contingent of conventioneers threw a party in my chest and tried to take it to my ears and throat as well. I called in the Green Tea Guard, and I'm about to deploy the Salt Water/Baking Soda Gargle Riot Squad.

No more Mr. Easy Target. They have awakened a sleeping giant. At least, I hope I'll be sleeping better tonight ...

For your viewing (and giggling) pleasure ...

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: INXS, "The One Thing"

Time: Night.

I'm making an early(ish) night of it. It's cold outside, the house is drafty and the idea of wrapping myself in blankets, making a mug of something hot and reading for a while sounds especially appealing.

But before I go, I'll leave you with this. Even if words aren't your life, it's still pretty darn funny.

A Traffic Jam on Memory Lane

Tea: Mixed Berry Green

Music: Crimson Jazz Trio, "Three of a Perfect Pair"

Time: Night.

I'm sure it's not an original thought. But for years, I've repeated that the price of a good memory is a lot of bad memories. I don't mean that in the transaction sense. I mean that being able to remember lots of things in great detail has its downside.

I have perfect recall of my father pouncing on a giant cutthroat trout that I took out of Fish Creek in Montana, keeping it from flopping back into the water after it landed on the bank and threw the hook. I also can't erase the image of him pale and groggy in Intensive Care, waiting for open-heart surgery that failed to save his life.

I remember with utter clarity my mother waking me up just before midnight on Friday nights, starting when I was eight, so we could watch old horror movies on a tiny black-and-white television that she brought into my room. And I can't forget trying to make it through the school days, in December of my senior year, knowing she had gone into the hospital for the last time.

I don't have a choice. Everything's filed away in my head. But I do have a choice as to what I take out, dust off and revisit.

I can choose to recall being wiped out, overwhelmed and cranky when I arrived in New York for the first time -- or being revived by a huge, rich, comforting plate of oxtails.

I can make myself flinch, recalling the time I accidentally shut one grandmother's hand in our car door -- or think of the times we picked Concord grapes in her back yard.

I can keep ledgers of wrongs done to me, and scan the pages every day, or focus on the good things -- the better than I deserved things -- others said to me, gave to me, did for me.

Things will come up unbidden, as memories do. And it serves no good to pretend that things didn't happen. But I have a choice as to what I let linger.

Space to Breathe

Tea: Lapsang Souchong

Music: Deep Purple, "Hush"

Time: Night

Forget smelling the roses. We barely stop to breathe these days.

So instead of spending three minutes reading a post, I want you to take three minutes and ... do nothing.

Think of clear winter air. Think of Pachelbel. Think of blue light. Whatever helps you breathe.

And if you go past three minutes, don't sweat it. You obviously needed the time.

Start ... now.

Phrase, Turned

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: The Rainmakers, "Little Tiny World"

Time: Night.

One thing I've heard from Westerners trying to learn tonal languages is how frustrating it can be to master inflections. Here, a rising note at the end of a syllable changes a statement to a question. In, say, Mandarin Chinese, it could turn a noun into a verb or a greeting into meaningless babble.

On the flip side, think how hard it must be for others to learn how inflection can take English phrases and reverse them.

"Yeah, yeah ..." vs. "Yeah! Yeah!" is the easiest example. Others can be harder to decode.

Take "Bless your heart." Said solicitiously, with "heart" becoming a two-syllable word rising at the end, it's a statement of thanks or commiseration. Put on a honey-sweet tone, and stress the "bless," and it becomes Southern for "Up yours, Jack."

Then there's "You're better than that." The faster and flatter you say it, the less you mean it. Stretch out the "better," and it becomes an exhortation to be better, rather than a slap for not having been better.

And finally, we have "It's up to you." Put the emphasis (and a peaking inflection) on "you," and it's genuine. When "up" is uppermost, any concessions made after that point are likely to be grudging. (See also "Whatever you say.")

So, to all you people who think English is so easy that immigrants should be able to learn it within, say, a few months of arriving here, I reply:

"Uh-huh."

You guess the inflection.

More than Instinct

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Brookville, "Golden"

Time: Night.

Bear with me here. I might not get all the way around to anything resembling a point. I'm circling, as a friend says, toward something.

I've been rereading Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses of late. I've also been, as ever, listening to a good deal of music and viewing a huge amount of art (including one installation which combined prints on rice paper with the scent of sixty pounds of loose-leaf jasmine tea, adding another sense to the mix).

And it's got me wondering how much biology has to do with our appreciation of -- and emotional responses to -- art.

The sadness inherent in minor keys, I can comprehend. A friend of mine once observed that life sings in a minor key, and life is a fragile and (physically) finite thing.

I understand the links between red and violent emotion. Your opponent/prey is bleeding, and it's up to you to keep that gusher going until (a) the threat is ended or (b) dinner is served. (There might be more than one "and" in there. I prefer not to think about that too much.)

And I get that the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump of a blues shuffle echoes the heartbeat.

But is that really all there is to it? Is it only our DNA, some trace race memory encoded in the genome, that makes the heart soar with the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria or causes us to shudder at Munch's The Scream? Why do Buson's haiku slip tiny needles into our memory centers, making us sure we should remember the scenes he describes?

Maybe there is. I'm sure there's a wealth of research on the subject (and on the subjects), all of it beyond my powers of comprehension.

But at heart (and call this blind faith if you will), I don't believe it's purely physical. I believe we're made -- fashioned -- with a spiritual bent toward beauty, toward harmony -- and yes, toward joy.

Art doesn't have to include all or even any of those elements, obviously. Sometimes, for the sake of a greater good, we must be shown what upsets, even repels us. A Modest Proposal is hardly beautiful, joyful or harmonious. Neither is Guernica. But our response to them -- horror at the effects of modern warfare, shocked compassion for starving children -- reinforce our humanity.

We are our DNA, yes. But we're more than that. We're body, mind, spirit, each resonating to its own frequency. And when those frequencies harmonize ... that's where art lives.

Driven to Reflection

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: Jim Croce, "I Got a Name"

Time: Almost midnight.

Sorry I've been away for a while. I'm still sorting the new site and re-sorting out life with daily deadlines. (I used to have them as a journalist. I can get used to it again -- and before long, I will rediscover the benefits of writing several days' worth of work in advance so I don't have to freak out as evening rolls in and I don't have the next day's post written.

I meant to be back last night, but my car had other plans. It died. (I don't think it meant to. It just did.)

The battery worked. The ignition didn't -- not even a click. This had me speaking fluent ARGH, a language composed entirely of those four letters (always capitalized) in varying sequences. To wit: "ARGH! GHRAHHH! RRRRAGHAAAH!" translates roughly as, "Why won't this car start? The batttery's working! Please start, car! I have to pick my son up at the high school ten minutes ago!"

This threw me for several loops. Picture third grade, cursive practice, learning to write the letter "l" in lower case, and you have an idea of the number of loops.

I had places I had to be tonight. The kids had to get to school this morning, and wanted to get to a church activity this evening.

And the car was dead.

If we lived somewhere with decent public transportation, this wouldn't be a problem. But this is the suburbs. It's car country. The buses run in the morning and the evening.

And the car -- the only functional car -- was dead.

I've been trying to cultivate equanimity, to breathe and count my blessings when faced with this sort of thing. And I failed ... miserably.

I let myself be wrung out by circumstances, to the point where I had no energy left for anything but dragging myself to bed.

And you know what?

It wasn't as bad as it seemed.

The kids got where they needed to go. The problem turned out to be a blown fuse, not a dead starter. Help came from several directions.

And the car is no longer dead.

There's a lesson in here for me, if I'm smart enough to learn it. If I claim to believe that my daily needs (and those of my family) will be provided for, then I'd better start acting like it.

Reconstitutional, Part I

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: The Rainmakers, "Small Circles"

Time: Night.

I've never been able to wear a wristwatch. Not that I don't like knowing what time it is, but I can't stand having anything around my wrist while I type -- which is pretty much all the time for me.

But on my left wrist, there's a makeshift bracelet of red cord, flecked with black and yellow. It's knotted in such a way that I can adjust the fit with a simple tug, but that's not why I've been wearing it since December the 30th.

The bracelets were given to all the adult sponsors at the two-state church youth conference I attended just before the turn of the year. The idea was to differentiate us from the teenagers -- not so much a problem for me, I know, but some of the sponsors were in their early 20s and looked younger.

The theme of the conference was "Goodbye Ordinary." The guiding principle: that risks must be taken and patterns broken if spiritual progress is to be made. I have much progress to make, spiritually and otherwise (although the "spiritually" should, ideally, drive the "otherwise." So I'm leaving the bracelet on not as any outward sign -- it doesn't proclaim that "Jesus is My Homeboy" or even ask "What Would Jesus Do?" -- but as a reminder.

That bright red bit of cord reminds me that I am nowhere near any kind of There -- and that I won't ever reach it if I don't take the steps to get there.

Finally ...

Tea: Christmas

Music: Yes, "Hearts"

Time: Night

Got a new Internet provider today. Apparently Blogspot likes it better than it liked my last one. I'll give it a go for a couple of days, see how things go. I'd love to not have to export the archives to another host, y'know?

Anyway ... I've got some catching up to do. I'm not even going to attempt to reconstitute my days since the last post, but I'll do my best in subsequent days to recapture whatever insights came to me over that span.

Today, I got word that a former sports editor of my hometown paper -- a job I also held for a while -- died last weekend of cancer. He was my first real writing mentor, and beyond that he was (although we didn't always get along) my friend.

It's knocked a lot out of my head, save one thought that stays with me:

When I die, will anyone remember me as a mentor -- and of what?

Too much for me to think about now. I'm going to take a deep sniff of something that smells really good, just to remind myself how good it feels to be alive and have all my senses.

The catching-up starts tomorrow, God and Blogspot willing.