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.

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.

Not Every Story Gives the Whole Picture

Tea: Mango Strawberry with milk and honey

Music: Don Henley, "Not Enough Love in the World"

Time: Night.

A few weeks ago, I read what appeared to be a badly reported newspaper review of an art show at a local gallery. (No names in this one. I deal with parties on all sides, you see.)

The show is controversial, thought-provoking and a fascinating combination of reverent and edgy -- and yet there was no mention of the personal views the artist holds on the subject at the heart of his works.

I used the word "weak" to describe the review. "Sloppy," too -- and, by extension, I thought of the writer as also possessing those (dubious) qualities.

Then, today -- while talking to the director of the gallery in question -- I found out I was wrong.

Oh, the story as presented was weak -- but only because an editor cut out two-thirds of it, something that left the writer heartsick and frantically calling people to explain.

And suddenly, I was the one who hadn't done his legwork.

It's a nasty thing, presumption -- especially given that I've had editors cut out key points or even insert mistakes into pieces I've written. (I should not here that I have had far more good editors than bad.)

I used to joke that it was better to assume the worst about people, because pleasant surprises are always better than unpleasant ones. I think it's time to scrap that attitude, even in jest. This is another case where it hasn't served me well.

The Matter of the Meat

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: Badfinger, "No Matter What"

Time: Night.

I'm co-writing about steak -- specifically, about how steak gets aged. (Most supermarket cuts, by the way, aren't.)

There's a wealth of information about protein breakdown, bacterial action, flavor concentration and the like. It makes my brain hurt sometimes, and I didn't even gather the bulk of the wealth.

But you know what?

I really want a steak now. Rib eye? T-bone (or its hulking cousin, the Porterhouse?) Top sirloin? (Notice that I'm not considering the filet mignon. It's an appetizer. A steak isn't a steak unless the ounces register in double digits.)

No, tonight I think I'd go for a Kansas City strip. Bone-in. The closer to the bone, you know ...

Critical Condition

Tea: Mandarin Green with honey.

Music: Crimson Jazz Trio, "Starless"

Time: Night.

I'm prefacing this post with a quote from Theodore Roosevelt:

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."

"Citizenship in a Republic,"
Speech at the Sorbonne, Paris, April 23, 1910

Why that quote? Because yours truly is, for the first time, cast in the role of art critic. I've been assigned to review an outdoor installation for a regional publication. (Sorry, I can't be more specific than that.)

I take photographs. I know lines and composition and whatnot (heavy on the whatnot), and I can string a few sentences together coherently. Does this qualify me to be a reviewer? Someone thinks so, at least.

I do want to remain mindful of one thing, though: My name's on the review, not on the artwork. It takes something to put your vision out for public consumption and criticism, and I do have to respect that courage. I have to let the writing show that, too.

Beyond that ... well, it is out there for public consumption and criticism. Fairness also demands that I not gush, if gushing is unwarranted.

I suppose the bottom line is that I want to write this in a way that would strike me as fair, were someone to write up my upcoming photo show in the same way.

No harm, I'd say, in measuring the Golden Mean with the Golden Rule.

A Charlie Brown Day

Tea: White Grapefruit with Honey

Music: Vince Guaraldi Trio, "Linus and Lucy"

Time: Night

My day hasn't been scripted entirely by Charles Schulz, but it's been close.

I did manage to get all but the last four pieces (which still have to be ordered) matted and framed for the photo show in March and April. But along the way, I managed to completely clear a table by accident when I stood up, didn't realize I had somehow become attached to my matting cloth and started to walk away.

Markers and tape littered the floor. At least I'd cleared the glass stuff a minute earlier.

But on the positive side of Charlie Brownhood, I got to do the happy dance once more when friend/collaborator/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes got her first New York byline, in the Jobs section of the New York Post. Check it out here. (Actually, it's a bit of a gloat dance. I told her she was good enough to get the gig without having to show previous clips, and she was -- and is.)

I just hope the Schulzian day doesnt' carry over into tomorrow. It's supposed to turn cold -- and while this yellow sweater with the zigzag stripe keeps my top half warm, 30-degree weather won't be any fun in these shorts.

Bridgework

Tea: Mandarin Orange.

Music: Nik Kershaw, "Wouldn't it be Good"

Time: Night.

Been thinking much about bridges lately, for lots of reasons.

Time, perhaps, to begin writing about one again.

Can't say too much, but I hope you'll all be reading about it someday.

So here's to bridges, and the building thereof.

Surfacing briefly

Tea: Cherry Chocolate Caramel Vanilla

Music: Various selections for piano and voice

Time: Night.

It's been a long but productive several days here in Weston, Missouri. Good food, lovely people and killer story ideas abound. (And yes, there will be plenty of pictures of rust and bricks and peeling paint. Some things never change, no matter the location.)

Tonight, there was excellent Cajun food at a new restaurant in Leavenworth. Then, back across the Missouri River in Weston, there was an impromptu piano/voice performance by one of the owners of the bed and breakfast that's home for the night. (Given that she's sung with the Kansas City Symphony, that was an extra special treat). And now, there's tea, and soon there will be sleep.

Blessings, all of them. And I'm grateful.

Broken or of a Creative Bent?

Tea: Chocolate Cinnamon.

Music: Squeeze, "Up the Junction"

Time: Night.

I've been thinking a great deal lately about the links between creativity and some sort of "offness," as it were.

Edward Hopper, one of my favorite painters, once proclaimed, "I guess I'm not very human. All I really want to do is paint light on the side of a house."

I can relate to that, sometimes. It's easy to hide behind a notebook and/or a camera, and not engage the world as anything but material.

I'm doing my best to strike a balance. But isn't imbalance -- the kind of imbalance that fuels creative tension -- what I'm after, too?

Maybe that's the paradox. Creative sorts have to be human, to understand the range of human emotions, strengths and frailties. But we (at least I hope to be listed on that roster) also have to be able to disengage, to switch to a purely observational mode.

Human, more than, less than.

Is it any wonder that we wonder?

The Art of ...

Tea: Cherry Vanilla

Music: "Blackbird," performed by a duo of vocal (female) and guitar

Time: Night.

It's been a long, art-themed day for me, workwise. Deadline in the afternoon, a piece for a local arts magazine, and First Friday tonight in the Crossroads.

I can't complain. I met some interesting people tonight, got several story ideas, saw some pieces that stopped me in my tracks -- and it beats writing about people killing each other or having their houses blown away by tornadoes. It positively thrashes sitting at a desk, rewriting other people's stories about death and disaster.

But a long day doing something you love is still a long day, and long days bring stresses, and stresses bring cracks.

So I'm going to keep this short tonight, and wish you a weekend in which at least one piece of someone else's creativity buckles your knees (in a good way, of course).

Cup XXXV: Variations on a Happy Theme

Tea: Jasmine Pearl

Music: Norah Jones, "One Flight Down"

Time: Night.

Long day. Good day -- in part because there is room at the inn, and there are good people keeping it.

Today's theme, in large part, has been that of happy interactions with good people.

First, I yielded the lunch ordering to friend/collaborator/consummate foodie Seánan Forbes -- who conspired with the server to have amazing homemade noodles (among a meal-long series of perfect bites) delivered to the table. Then, off to reconnect with one winery (and the warm people who run it) and introduce Seánan to another -- and to Concord wine. (Let the purists sniff and call it "jelly in a wine glass." The purists can bite me.)

Oh, and if you live anywhere near Weston, Missouri, and you don't visit at least once ... I shake my head slowly, sadly, pitying you.

Then across the street to dinner -- which, as did lunch, consisted of excellent food served by welcoming people.

It's been a good third day of what's been an odd work trip, a good day for hunting and finding story ideas, a good day for discussions -- both philosophical and practical -- about what good food/travel writing should be.

Would it have been as productive without the interactions along the way? Maybe. But it wouldn't have been nearly as enjoyable.

(That's not counting the encounter with one person who heard, "He wants me to try x" and interpreted it as, "I should disregard that and give them y." Frowny face for him. Gold stars for everyone else.)

Tonight's spooky story:

Willkie Collins, "Miss Jéromette and the Clergyman"

Cup XXVI: That Which Passes, Comes Back Again ...

Tea: Oolong leaf, Wuyi Ensemble

Music: Selections from an eccentric English guitarist

Time: Midafternoon

I've loaded everything I own connected with Robert Fripp onto my mp3 player. Most of it is his solo stuff and work with King Crimson. But I also have snippets of other collaborations (Brian Eno, Peter Gabriel, Theo Travis) and ensemble work (the League of Gentlemen, the League of Crafty Guitarists, the Robert Fripp String Quintet).

Dangerous obsession, as I often mention the Frippster in Steep Thoughts posts? Nah. More a study in voice.

One man, six strings ... yet so many voices, both solo and in collaboration. And each voice -- the strident, the soothing, the subdued -- fits the material.

That's what I want to do with my writing, both singular and shared -- the poetry, the fiction, the essays, the articles on art and food and music. I am one writer, but I want to have more than one voice -- or perhaps to phrase it more accurately, one voice that remains true to its source, yet modulates and blends with the material at hand.

Okay, enough pontificating for one day. Time for a second steeping, a shuffle of the mp3 player and today's unsettling story:

E.F. Benson, "The Confession of Charles Linkworth"

Cup V: (But I Never Really Thought Everything Looked Worse in Black and White)

Tea: Ginger Peach with honey

Music: Paul Simon, "Kodachrome"

Time: Night.

"When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all ..." -Paul Simon

So today, dear Diary, I played teacher. Sort of. I sat in on a couple of senior Advanced Placement English classes and a fourth grade class at a local school. No, not at the same time.

Quite frankly, the prospect left me apprehensive. I know how to write, yes, but how to teach writing and critical reading? I pictured eyes glazing, rolling, looking out the window.

It wasn't so bad, even though the seniors were discussing Ralph Waldo Emerson instead of the Civil War book I stayed up until 3 a.m. finishing. Most of the time was spent in observation, interjection and familiarization. Good minds, although I wish some of them would dig in deeper to defend their points of view.

The fourth graders were a lot of fun (and I went in more intimidated by them than by the high school kids). Lively imaginations, for the most part, and they all seemed eager to get in on the story improvisation section.

So, I've been invited back. And I'll be going back. But don't start calling me "Sir" just yet.