New Socks

I have a tendency (okay, a compulsion) to browse when I'm anywhere that has shops, and the more unusual, the better. Today I was at Tyson's Corner--an unlikely place for an epiphany, and as I browsed through the shops, I realized that I was wallowing in, if not the slough of despond, at least the slough of ennui.

I've discovered that I'm prone to that sort of thing. I had been getting less and less enthusiastic about cooking over the past year and was of late seizing any excuse not to, no matter how tenuous the pretext. On our return from our visit to Tucson, however--where my job had been to prepare meals every day for a week --I found that I'd experienced a renaissance of interest--purely from doing that. All at once, it wasn't a chore anymore. I started looking for new recipes, shopping for ingredients, figuring out how things fit together...It was fun again.

The same thing applies to writing. It's really easy to fall off the wagon and not write one day. Unfortunately, that 'one day' starts multiplying, until the writing becomes a distant chore that you don't enjoy anymore. My brain bogs down in an empty hole; I'm not thinking anything new and it shows in my work.

Now you may be wondering where all this circumlocution is leading, and how it connects to Tyson's Corner. My epiphany was that I found a book in my browsing. It was a children's book, called "New Socks", and it's a writing manual. Not really, but it is as much of a writing how-to as any other book in Barnes & Noble's labyrinthine stacks. It relates the experience and excitement of a little chick (maybe a duck--it was yellow and had a beak) who has a new pair of socks. Hardly "War and Peace"-- or even Strunk & White.

However, as I paged through the book (I DO like children's books, particularly if I can put an adult spin on them) I started thinking again of Billy Collins and his Looney Tunes inspiration. If we're going to write, we need to foster that same kind of excitement, that same kind of wide-eyed "Wow!" with which children (and chicks) view their world. We've got to let our worldview be upended and enhanced by things as simple as a pair of new socks, or as complex as a presidential election. Sitting in front of my laptop doesn't make me a writer--at least not a writer with anything to say. Getting out in the world and tasting it, seeing new things and embracing them, thinking about something in a new way and writing about it: that's what gives me a reason--and a responsibility--to put my work out there for others to see.

All I needed was a pair of new socks. Read the book.

Reading jag

When I was young and fancy-free (read "living at home with my mom doing the laundry and the cooking and cleaning) I used to read incessantly. We lived a mile from one of the best libraries in America: the Enoch Pratt Free Library in Baltimore--Branch 26--and I took full advantage of its proximity. I always had a stack of books at the ready, waiting for me to dip into them. I also had a deadline, as the borrowing period was about two weeks, as I recall. Ten books in two weeks translated to about a day and a half per book..pretty tough when I had to fit in things like school and stuff as well. But, somehow, there were very few books that didn't get read before I trucked them back to the library. (My mother would probably chime in that there were quite a few OTHER things that fell by the wayside, however.)



Anyway, it seems that the older I got (and the more complex life became) the more my reading declined, being relegated now to the never-never land between washing the dinner dishes and falling asleep. This period seems to be getting shorter every year, and I'm not sure if we're eating later or falling asleep earlier. In any event, the books are piling up, along with the newspapers and magazines and recipe clippings and email and other electronic subscriptions.



Now, with retirement either knocking at the door or amazingly, inside already, I find that I'm reading more, and moreover, reading differently. You have to understand that--all my life--I have been an indiscriminate reader. Books, newspapers, metro ads, cereal boxes, comic books, labels, those little tray liners at McDonalds...all were fair game. If it had words on it, I would read it. I read the way gluttons ate--because it was there, whether or not it had any nutritive value. I read for amusement, information, to pass the time, to hide from other people (I was a shy person, down to my very bones), to have something to talk about, to know something other people didn't...



Now, while some residue of that lack of discrimination remains (for example, reading on plane trips to avoid thinking about that strange thumping noise in the wing or the turbulence that has me wondering if my will is up to date) I read less often, but with greater attention. Is this poem in the New Yorker worth copying for my files? What should we not miss on our trip to Italy? What does a new grandmother need to know? And of course, the endless email-blog-google parade of addictive information, without which I might have a life away from my laptop...There is so much I have yet to learn that I go on great galloping reading jags when I do have the time, and plow through book after book until I can read no more...

So, in the midst of all this sturm und drang, I read a review of a book by and about an author--an author, mind you!--who had a minor stroke that robbed him of his ability to read. Now, I have thought, on occasion, what it might be like if I lost my sight, or hearing (maybe I already have, to some degree), mobility, and any number of things. But reading has always been a constant, a sine qua non of my existence. What would I do if suddenly words were just random squiggles, beyond comprehension? How could I function, understanding that there was meaning there, but just out of my reach? Can you write if you can't read? And if you (understandably) can't do either, how do you absorb, remember, make sense of the world and its information?

If I can draw any conclusion from this morass, it might be that my life as a reading junkie has served me well thus far, and further, that reading deprivation might well be one of the deeper circles of hell for someone like me. There are a lot worse things than having stacks of books and magazines in every corner. They are a tangible sign that my brain is alive and well and functioning; what more could I ask of my life?

New babies

Unfortunately I was unable to attend last Saturday's Alexandria Birthday celebration due to the arrival of our first grandchild. That event trumped just about everything else on our summer agenda. After a week or so of baby-holding and transfers, preparing meals and doing laundry, it is clear why caring for babies is for the young--or at least those more fit than I. Multi-tasking is the name of the game, and my admiration abounds for young mothers who manage to do so much so well.

Needless to say, Audrey is a beautiful baby--growing daily in wisdom, age and grace (3/4 of an inch in height as well!) I will not be a typical grandmother and extol her virtues ad infinitum, but rest assured that she has a plentitude of them, and will no doubt have a few poems from her grandmother to paper her nursery walls. Who knew how fascinating it would be to watch someone sleep? Or do almost anything...

Poetic Inspiration

This weekend I read one of the more true-to-life (at least true to MY life) commentaries on poetic inspiration I've ever read. In the weekend edition of The Wall Street Journal, Billy Collins (former U.S. Poet Laureate and down-to-earth poet extraordinaire) attacked the question of inspiration and, after acknowledging the knee-jerk reaction answers given by most writers, attempted to provide a more truthful alternative: one that rang especially true for me. By all means, find the article and read it if you can--or email me for the copy I made of it.

The fact is that inspiration doesn't necessarily come in wispy packages of cloud, or in the works of great poets or art. For anyone seeking their muse, it might prove more useful to get out in the world and pay attention to what's going on there than to closet yourself in your low-rent garret and wait for inspiration to find you. Anything that serves to take you out of yourself, beyond the box of everyday living, everyday possibility, is a source of inspiration. Whether that vehicle is the Looney Tunes cartoons of Billy Collins' youth or a wild idea that hits you upside the head while you're driving to work...don't question the source. Just make the most of it. The real road to inspiration lies in paying attention.

Mind the gaps...

I seem to have lost not just a weekend, a la Ray Milland, but a full week or so. The truth of the matter is that life has intruded on the internet--or something like that. Inject a little reality--like some unexpected travel, a party to give, and a major automotive breakdown--and the most faithful blogger can fall down on the job. Mea culpa.

My trusty vehicle had just passed the 100,000 mile mark and I was congratulating myself on its stellar performance for lo, these eight years, when it decided to go out with a (literal) bang--in the middle of beltway traffic Monday morning. One minute, I was sailing along at 60 mph--and the next, was coasting on my remaining momentum across two lanes of traffic toward an inglorious stop, trailing a cloud of black smoke and what looked like a river of oil. With the invaluable aid of my cellphone and a AAA rep who was able to determine my location from what meager information I could supply ("Uh, just past an exit somewhere between Route 50 and Andrews Air Force Base ..") we managed to get the car towed back home to Alexandria. I am happy to report that the car has received an engine transplant and is again back on the road, though I wouldn't have expected that happy ending last Monday.

More to come...like, what is this Bathroom Poetry Project I read about in the Post this morning?

Donkey's years?

A posted comment on yesterday's post inquired as to the length of a donkey year. Hmmm. Yet another of those verbal leaps that I tend to make. I know what it means--a long time--but how in the world did that phrase come about? The answer to all things is obviously to google it. I did, and the explanation involves EARS, not YEARS--or maybe a little of both. My source traces it to cockney rhyming slang..."years and years" is translated to a rhyming phrase "donkey's ears". Over the years, "donkey's ears" was corrupted to "donkey's years". Who knew?

As long as I'm on origins of useful phrases, commonly used or not, there was another that surfaced this weekend. My husband and I took a letterpress printing class on Saturday, and were thrilled with the experience. We learned how to set type and convert our efforts to a hand-printed card. For bookish types like us, what a great chance to expand our knowledge base-- and particularly satisfying for me to write, choose a font, set type, choose paper and print my own poem. For those of us who are control freaks, being able to work through the whole process from start to finish was nothing short of nirvana. And JC was so taken that he is trying to figure out how we could possibly find space for a press of our own. Anyway, the individual pieces of type--i.e. the letters--are called "sorts". Thus, when a printer was setting type for a print job, and found himself short of certain letters toward the end, he was said to be "out of sorts". As I could well imagine when I nearly ran out of "w"s for my effort. We both had a great time. For avid readers like us, it truly gave us a new appreciation for the printed word that we have relied on all our lives for information, relaxation, and entertainment.

I guess this is not the right time to say that we just bought a Kindle electronic reader, huh? But that's a different story.

A blog, a newspaper, and a poem.

I've come to the conclusion that a blog is like a pet: it needs regular feeding and exercise. Even if it's out of sight, it's never really out of mind, and generates its own variety of guilt. As you drop off to sleep, this vague uneasy thought burrows under your consciousness--"I should have written something today.."

My usual mental response is: better to write something of interest than to write for the sake of writing. Which is all well and good, BUT..it doesn't really stop that little mole from digging up a pile of guilt anyway.

I was on the Metro last week and was absolutely riveted by one of my fellow passengers. At the time, it was just curiosity, but I'm beginning to think that he is the beginning of a poem. I took my seat and started reading my paperback, and noticed that the gentleman in question was reading his newspaper--but in the most orderly fashion I've ever observed. With almost military precision, he picked up each section from his lap, folded the section vertically, then horizontally--read the top sheet, flipped to the quadrant below, then turned the section, refolded, and read top and bottom quarters. He repeated this for each page: northwest quadrant, followed by southwest, northeast, southeast. By this time, I was watching him more than I was reading. How neat! How tidy! How considerate of other riders! And how beyond my capabilities...The man qualifies as a true wonder of nature.

When I open a newspaper--or a map!--anywhere, it immediately expands to fill the space available. I could, I believe, fill an entire Metro car with one of my exploding newspapers. In the car, I wrestle prodigiously with your standard gas station map--so much so that I have been reduced to buying ADC maps because they are bound with that little black plastic spiral that keeps them leashed and confined and incapable of crawling into the already-crowded backseat of my car.

I wondered where he had learned his method. I wondered if I could learn it. I imagined him in a crowded elevator, elbows in, rectangle of news held in front of his face. Stepping off the elevator, he would tuck his neat package of information under his arm and proceed to his office to organize nothing short of the D-Day invasion. He made me think of Roman soldiers, running in such tight formation that one misstep could topple the century. (I was reading about Rome in my paperback.) This is a man, who in one of our society's rapidly-shrinking theater or airline seats, could manage to be comfortable, yet not spill over into someone else's personal space. He is self-contained, respects boundaries, is informed and efficient. Everything I wish I were, and so obviously, am not.

And so, the poem. What better metaphor for poetry than my friend, the subway rider? Perhaps he started off as messy and (pardon the expression) all over the map as I. Perhaps he has worked to refine his behavior, his actions, his newspaper reading, much as a poet refines and polishes the great lump of words he initially produces, taking away the superfluous, amping up the things that work, grinding away at the rough spots until the words flow smoothly and effortlessly describe, picture, and pin down the intended meaning. Perhaps what I saw was the zillionth reading of his newspaper-reading poem, performed every day for donkey's years on the Metro. And the finished product was awe-inspiring.

May I someday be as accomplished a poet as he was a reader.