Tues Ten 051810: Half-Finished Books

Oh good grief. Do you ever catch a glimpse of your own ridiculousness? Frankly, it happens to me all the time. It happened last night. Yesterday was a difficult and tiring day in many respects, and I was looking to wind down at the end of it. Sometimes one of my wind-down pasttimes is reading. Now, reading and I have been on the outs recently. It’s nothing that reading has done. I have just been focused on other things and my free time has been in short supply. I haven’t finished a book since the adventure I mentioned a while back with Patti Smith and Robert Maplethorpe in Just Kids. While the book left me a little saturated with 1970s icons, it was a good read with no long-lasting reading baggage.

As an aside, I’ll share two of my favorite quotes from that book…

pg. 40 “… I understood that in this small space of time we had mutually surrendered our loneliness and replaced it with trust.”
What a lovely description of the birth of soul mates. Honestly.

pg. 116 “The politics at Max’s were very similar to high school, except the popular people were not the cheerleaders or football heroes and the prom queen would most certainly be a he, dressed as a she, knowing more about being a she than most she’s.”
Made me laugh out loud. Honestly. (Where Max equals Andy Warhol 70s hang-out.)

Now, back to the list at hand and my reading habits. They’ve been non-habitual lately. Last night after the long day, I was interested in getting reacquainted with the process. I usually have a couple of books in progress when choosing my preferred distraction, and I have a couple of places I keep them. There is a basket under one of our side tables where some reside in hopes of keeping them from Baby Girl’s growing obsession with books, and well, tearing their pages. There is also a small shelf by the fireplace where I keep a few. And, there may be a few laying around where the mail or magazines rest or next to my computer bag. It’s a haphazard storage system at best. Last night I checked all those places to choose a current pre-bedtime selection. Here’s where ridiculous steps in.

Honestly, there were at least ten books that were at various stages of completion. With that number of choices, I was suddenly and completely overwhelmed by making the decision. My effort at relaxing suddenly became an anxious, self-doubting exercise in “which book should I choose.” Ridiculous, I tell you.

Then, an idea occurred to me. I could salvage this ridiculous moment–by sharing it with you. Whoa! with the ten mid-read books. Emphasis on ten. Now, I realize that I’ve been all literary lately, what with the poetry shared last week. I hope you non-pleasure readers won’t take it personally. I’m sure I’ll be back to some new record of ridiculous next week like “things I didn’t know were in my refrigerator.” For now, you’ll have to bear with me.

I give you this week’s Tuesday Ten: Half-Finished Books Laying Around–made even more fun (and possibly more ridiculous) by highlighting their respective “bookmarks” as well. Enjoy!

1. Lost Symbol by Dan Brown — page marked by a day job business card
[On loan from the Queen, but as usual, Dan freaked me out in the first couple of pages and I'm still a little freaked but so up for the cryptography.]

2. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan — page marked by a younger photo of Little Drummer Boy & Bug
[Fictional account of a real-life love affair with the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. It has me caught up in being all sentimental about architects and their buildings.]

3. Grace (Eventually) by Anne Lamott — page marked by its own book jacket at the moment
[A book on faith and its winding, but eventual path. This is where I'll start.]

4. Making the Blue Plate Special by Florence Littauer — page marked by a baby picture of Baby Girl, awww
[A great book on the importance of creating traditions. Made me cry a few times already. Why haven't I finished this?]

5. Called to Worship by Vernon Whaley — page marked by the only true “bookmark” that’s white with a green/white polkadot border and two green, yellow and red turtles plus “Haley” that I cross-stitched on it sometime when I was busy reading Little House in the Big Woods
[A head-bending look at worshipping God using various folks in the Bible as teachers.]

6. The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl — page marked by Kroger checkout coupon for $2 off a Duracell battery value pack
[A mystery involving Dante's levels of hell and a serial killer set in the 1800s. I'm scared this one will scare the pants off me, which is probably why it's unfinished.]

7. Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann — page marked by a scrap of artwork by Bug
[National Book Award winner I couldn't resist from Barnes and Noble, plus it starts with a dude walking a tightrope between two NYC skyscrapers. Cool.]

8. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott — page marked by a Gatlinburg, TN brochure
[I've loved this book since I learned to read it, and I'm reading it again just for fun. But, seriously, how much fun can one reading Junkie really have with all these choices?]

9. The Key to Your Child’s Heart by Gary Smalley — page marked by a notecard with Walter Anderson blockprint of a cat
[My token parenting book, and it has GREAT insight on how we can inadvertently close up another person's heart. But, it is heavy and thought-provoking and actionable, so it doesn't help me relax.]

10. Robert Frost Poems (anthology) — no pages marked, since I seem to simply pick it up, leaf and read
[This is why he's showing up in posts recently.]

(#17: Grace is on deck. Swing, batter.)

Tues Ten 051110: Poems I’m Reading

For some reason lately, I’ve been reading more poetry. Maybe it was the whole Poetry Month thing. I’ve been revisiting some of the poems that I’ve enjoyed over the years and experiencing some new ones from poets I’m not quite as familiar with. There is something about a well-turned phrase that just gets my Junkie juices flowing. And, great poems are full of well-turned phrases and concise ideas expressed in unusual ways. It’s a type of writing I’ve only dabbled in, but one that I tremendously admire. I decided to share a few of the selections with you. I can’t say they are my favorites because the word favorite has always carried way to much pressure for me. What if I decide I really like another one tomorrow? “Favorite” is such a relative term in my book.  So, let’s just say these are verses I’m enjoying at this moment. That totally leaves it open for me to change my Junkie mind. So, this week I give you the Tuesday Ten: Poems I’m Reading. Complete with a few lines I enjoy from each. Maybe you’ll enjoy reading them too.

1. “Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

I can say with complete assurance that Robert Frost is one of my favorite poets. I don’t mind using the term “favorite” with his work. I’m completely enamored of a poet who can rhyme without you realizing it’s a rhyme. This verse is one I continually come back to.

2. “Sympathy” by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
I know why the caged bird sings!

I love the line… “And he would be free.” It speaks of an intense and unquenchable desire. He would be. Free.
full text here

3. “When Death Comes” by Mary Oliver

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.

I’ve posted this poem before. Those two lines are remarkable. It finishes with “I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.” Indeed.
full text here

4. “Putting in the Seed” by Robert Frost.

The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

There he is again. I’ve always thought those last two lines were such a picture of courage and determination.
full text here

5. “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

A poem, in part, about “grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight.” Sometimes the light is brightest when we realize it is waning.
full text here

6. “Words from a Totem Animal” by W. S. Merwin

Send me out into another life
lord because this one is growing faint
I do not think it goes all the way

My one-word description of this poem is ethereal. It is long and challenging, full of searching and beautiful.
full text here

7. “Narration” by Giorgos Seferis

We’ve grown used to him; like everything else you’re used to
he doesn’t stand for anything
and I talk to you about him because I can’t find
anything that you’re not used to;

George Seferis is a Greek poet I’ve mentioned before. This poem describes an encounter with a local man, someone people are “used to.” Can there be anything sadder than someone you’re just used to? I hope I never see the ones I love that way.
full text here

8. “Daddy Longlegs” by Ted Kooser

it would be the secret dream
of walking alone across the floor of my life
with an easy grace, and with love enough
to live on at the center of myself.

This lone walk of living at peace with the core of ourselves inspite of the world is found in a picture of the small and insignificant march of an insect. Amazing what we see when we pay attention.
full text here

9. “Passion for Solitude” by Cesare Pavese

A gulp of my drink, and my body can taste the life
of plants and of rivers. It feels detached from things.
A small dose of silence suffices, and everything’s still,
in its true place, just like my body is still.

Though translated from Italian, Pavese’s language is frank and beautiful describing a supper in solitude and the breath of calm and stillness it brings.
full text here

10. “Reluctance” by Robert Frost

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

This may be my “favorite” Frost poem. His observation of human nature is very astute in all his poetry, but none more than in describing our utter resistance to letting go.
full text here

The Reason Behind the Reason

Today marks my two-year anniversary as a blogger. What a journey! This week, I’ve been thinking about the EyeJunkie adventure as it relates to my 2010 theme word, courage. Over the last few months, several friends and commenters on the site have made reference to openness and the courage required to express thoughts so transparently in this particular medium. Can you say world wide web? Emphasis on world. While I don’t necessarily see myself as courageous (hence the year-long posting pursuit), I do recognize that sharing one’s thoughts and life in any authentic way with the internet is not for the timid. It’s intimidating. It’s scary. And, yes, I think it can be a little presumptuous. I mean, what do you care, right?

I’ve actually been amazed by how much you care. By how much credence you’ve given to my sometimes haphazard thoughts. I know my own time constraints and schedule, and I’ve been amazed at how ready you’ve been to carve out however brief a space in yours for this blog. I’ve been honored by the comments–both here and on Facebook and Twitter. I’ve been inspired by how many of you have taken the time to send me a personal email about something you’ve read or seen here.

Still, courage? Contemplating whatever courage might be required to enter the blogosphere and the daunting task of interjecting my voice into the fray has me thinking about the reason I started this “thing” in the first place. And, the reason behind the reason I’ve realized since.

I had been contemplating this adventure for some time before I actually began. I’ve always enjoyed writing and journaling. This particular medium seemed (from an observer’s position) to be the perfect combination of both. I was pregnant with Baby Girl at the time and swimming in a sea of toddler antics, dirty diapers and waning second trimester stamina. I was immersed in the usual schedule of home-making and nursery preparations. I was keeping my head above water with a healthy design schedule at my day job. And, I was realizing that, for the first time in my life, I had virtually abandoned any personal creative pursuit.

For those of you who haven’t read all the fine print, my day job is with an advertising agency where I am a graphic designer. So, I use my creativity for a living. However, I’ve always somehow needed an outlet for exploring ideas in a more personal way. Whether through painting or poetry or book-making, expressing myself–usually through some combination of words and pictures–has always fueled energy and creativity in other areas of my life.

It began to dawn on me as I made it through the considerable energy drain of a third pregnancy paired with two toddlers that my children didn’t yet know that creative person, that writer, that painter, that maker of things. Somehow through complacency or busyness or sheer exhaustion, I had forsaken those pursuits. Then, I began to notice this odd on-line medium called blogging. I began to see this type of outlet as a way to incorporate those creative tendencies back into my life without the less than kid-friendly materials and space required for something like the watercolor painting or collage I was prone to. In early 2005, my parents gifted me with an exquisite little MacBook named Kermit. He opened the doors of reality on that little idea that had been germinating. I began brainstorming and making notes and sketches for how a personal blog might actually flesh out. You can read the evolution of “eyeJunkie” and the “adventures in paying attention” theme another time, but suffice it to say that one domain name, a web hosting account, and one WordPress download later, this blog was born.

“Hello, world.” That statement was enough to intimidate me for sure. It was the title of the test post WordPress Dude includes in every download of the application. It chrystalized the nature of this experiment pretty clearly–my words, my voice broadcast to the world for all manner of internet-goers to partake. Yikes.

My voice.

As I plugged along with writing and posting, EyeJunkie certainly filled the creative bill. It helped me accomplish that goal of a creative pursuit. Those readers who have been around for any length of time can attest that I’ve subjected the Junksters to all kinds of experiments and hare-brained ideas–graphics popping up here and there, series starting and fizzling, run-on sentences and fragments abounding. But, something else beyond a basic creative outlet has emerged for me in these two years.

Recently, I was writing some thoughts (something about underwear purchases or chili… don’t even ask) in an email to a friend who commented… “this sounds like an EJ post.” Wait a minute. EyeJunkie posts have a sound. That stuck. The comment made me realize the reason behind the reason that this blogging adventure matters to me. I’ve noticed a voice emerging. Mine. A consistency and willingness to speak. A thoughtful, but emphatic tone. An amalgum of emotion framed in a single sound. The sound of my own voice.

Through the months of blogging, I recognized that I had been in a period of my life for some time when I felt that my voice was being drowned out–perhaps by difficult relationships, distractions and interruptions, the absorption of care-giving and kid-loving, dailyness and just plain busyness. I found that my own voice was hushed and difficult to discern–even to myself–above (or below) the din. Through the act of writing and exposing thoughts to the world regardless of who may or may not be reading, I was finding my voice again. I realized again that I had something to say, and this venue gave me the inclination to say it. To find the courage to speak it. In my own voice.

Is transparency in this world brave? Perhaps. Is writing an authentic blog essay courageous? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve put courage into this body of nonsense as much as it’s put courage into me. Writing an EyeJunkie worthy of your attention has encouraged me to speak. In my own voice. If the question of courage is “where can I find it?”, for sure I’ve found at least a little within this cyber space. Thank you for listening to that process.

Where the Ideas Take Me

Warning: This is yet another post about writing. What is it about writers that makes them write so much about writing–analyzing their own “craft,” evaluating their own habits? I can hear the chorus of oh-good-griefs resonating through cyberspace right now. Truth be told; I don’t necessarily consider myself to be a “writer” most of the time. I’m just a girl who writes, really. I don’t know if that gets me off the hook with the “writing about writing” fiasco. But here goes.

I love to write. I really do. And, I hate to write. I really do. There’s the rub. In observing myself, I’ve realized that there’s a point (call it A) at which I’m really excited about the process. And there’s a point (call it B) at which I can’t even successfully bribe myself with chocolate to do it. Then, I get back to the place where I’m willing to write, actually put some work into it. And finally, on the really fun days, I get in that zone–the state of mind where the essays write themselves, and I’m just along for the key-tapping. I’m the same way with my design projects sometimes (the day job). I imagine the process is similar for those in other creative pursuits. And let’s face it; are there really pursuits that aren’t creative? Whether it’s writing or painting or architecture or graphic design or preschool lesson-planning or cooking or running a business or whatever, sometimes it’s hard to get from unsuccessful bribery to willingness. Much less to being along to enjoy the ride. If it lights a fire inside, it has the potential to squelch itself just as easily in my experience. And at some point, hopefully the flame just burns inspite of itself.

As you may have guessed, writing has not been coming easily these days. You can surmise that from the infrequency of my posts (if this particular essay didn’t give it away.) The breakdown in the process for me comes more from simply getting started than from the actual writing itself. Once I set about putting my fingertips to the keys, the words usually come. It’s the getting there that’s the problem. So, what stalls me between point A and point B?  Just like with many kinds of decisions or pursuits, you can take a number.

Sometimes it’s fear or insecurity. Can I really do this? Sometimes it’s lack of sincerity or commitment. Am I really willing to put the time into this? More often than not, it’s the paralysis of ideas — either too many or too little.  Maybe that one comes from the quest for perfection. Ideas in their raw form are ethereal. They’re abstract to an extent. They have the glamour of perfection without the work required for a lean, toned, well-coiffed presentation. And, bringing about that toned essay from some fleeting idea regularly brings me many a moment of insecurity, indecision and non-commitment.

I’m an idea girl. I can brainstorm with the best of them. In fact, I’m a huge proponent of that unfiltered practice. I actually spend a lot of time doing it. But, I’ve been confounded by the idea of ideas lately. So many beginnings, it’s hard to choose which one to explore to a satisfying conclusion. And, an idea is only as good as where it takes me.

I saw a comment in a Twitter chat recently. It may have been part of some targeted conversation on innovation or marketing or social media–one of those things that verify my nerd status. I can’t remember. But the thought was that ideas aren’t really the best commodity–not the best investment. It made the case that a better investment is in those who can generate ideas. The process of producing ideas has more potential for return than any one, fleeting idea. I found that to be interesting and true. To a degree. The ability to generate ideas is indeed a notable gift, but the ability to follow through on an idea is also important. To chase an idea unencumbered by precedent or constraint or forethought can be a frustrating process, but also a rewarding one. Ideas can gain a life and passion of their own. Following them can get me to surprising places.

In my efforts to get from that unsuccessful bribe I mentioned to the willingness to work at it, to chase it, I ask myself lots of questions. Do I need to put myself on a schedule? To discipline myself more? Do I need to limit my focus? Find someone to hold me accountable? Do I need to pick a singular topic? Am I committed to this? Can I do this? Regardless of the answers, I do find that when I write, writing comes. When I stop thinking about where the ideas might lead and start following their trail in actual words and sentences, they actually take me somewhere. And it’s usually a place I enjoy going.

So, why am I sharing this? At the risk of being ridiculous, I have no idea. Call it a visual aid. It was one of those ideas that I decided to pursue, committing my fingers to the trusty laptop keyboard. Did it take me somewhere valuable? You tell me. Does it feel good to bang something out without thinking about its “postability?” Yes, it does. So, the fact that I’m along for the ride accomplishes my purpose.

EyeJunkie writing lesson of the week: Ideas are like topics of conversation, BlowPop flavors and underwear… when in doubt, just pick one and go with it.

Tues Twenty 030210: Books Redux

I’ve been thinking about books a lot lately. I just finished reading Just Kids by Patti Smith, a memoir of her life and friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe. What is it about books, whether mysteries or memoirs or monographs, that have such power to move me? Just Kids was at times poignant, at times an exercise in frustration, at times an obscure literary lesson and at times a huge 60s and 70s cocktail party. But, at the end, when the final scenes for Patti and Robert were played out before his death, I was moved to tears. It was such an unavoidable description of the realities of goodbye and hello and time spent and time lost and unexpected outcomes and enduring soul kinship. And, since I’m writing this to the backdrop of Little Drummer Boy and Baby Girl giggling and playing together, I’m realizing it was also a story of life lived and how it moves on. Quite a range of thinking from just 279 pages.

I’m not sure I have ever in my life been able to read words on a page without thinking about them. Yes, I sometimes realize at bedtime that I’ve reached the end of my 647th encounter with Corduroy or Harry the Dirty Dog or The Tale of Peter Rabbit without remembering the actual act of speaking the words. But, the first time I read them I thought about them. The first time I read them I engaged in some strange process of extracting personal reactions or obscure life lessons. Many of the books my children read are copies I had as a child myself. I’m sure my first time reading them as a parent produced different thoughts than my times reading them as a youngster. That’s just how it goes.

I’m in the midst of deciding on the next book to read and culling down a list of possibilities gleaned from way too much time spent with NPR email alerts and the New York Times Book Review. I don’t know why I always get indecisive with this process. It’s not like I can’t put a book down and pick up another one at my leisure. Sometimes the decision represents some tantalizing combination of being afraid a book won’t live up to its billing and of being afraid it will so surpass its billing that it will haunt me for months or years. Perhaps I’m overthinking. While I decide and reign myself in, I thought I’d offer up a Tuesday Twenty list of books I’d be delighted to RE-read. I just read an interview in the LA Times with John McPhee, the author and long-time columnist for The New Yorker. The article was about his upcoming book of personal essays (just another addition to the list of reading possibilities *sigh*), and in it, he offered some sage insight about being a reader, despite his ample experience being the writer in the equation. He observed that “the creative person in this process is the reader, by a long shot. The writer supplies three or four words, but the reader makes the picture.” These books have afforded me the opportunity to paint a unique picture on one or more occasions in my reading. And, I’m convinced another reading would give me an entirely new view. The power of a good book.

1. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
Some folks tire of the intricate detail found in Edith Wharton’s work, but I really enjoy the description of New York society during the turn of the 20th Century. It’s a toss-up between this more popular novel and The House of Mirth. Both have such a wrenching view of women living outside the constraints of the trappings of that society.

2. Emma by Jane Austen
Fills my latent romantic tendencies. Downright funny at times, and there’s a happy ending!

3. Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons
The most poignant part in the first reading: Ellen thinks her last name is Foster because people always refer to her as “that Foster child.” Hers is a story of triumph and Kaye Gibbons’ Southern stream of consciousness is remarkable, if you like that sort of thing. I’d read any of her books again. Seriously.

4. Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier
Vermeer. Enough said. But, the fictional tale surrounding the moments captured in one of his most astounding works is bittersweet, eloquent and artistic.

5. Lucy Gayheart by Willa Cather
Years later, I’m still thinking about the bittersweet end of this beautiful novel about a woman who wants so much more than what the culture she lives in is willing to give her.

6. A Woman of Independent Means by Elizabeth Forsythe Bailey
Told entirely in letters, this story of a woman’s powerful spirit made me want to go out and buy stationery. The lost art of letters never looked so attractive.

7. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
I can’t tell you how many times I read this as a child. It still stirs me, both from the family story, the independence of “Jo” and my own memories of reading it.

8. 31 Hours by Masha Hamilton
Published just last year, I’m astounded by the restraint in this book, by the new perspective on terrorism, by the mother’s heart described, by the uncommon experiences found in the common subway.

9. Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Laura Ingalls was my best friend in elementary school. It would be good to see her again.

10. The Lively Art of Writing by Lucille Vaughan Payne
This little book was my 9th grade English textbook. Thank you, Mrs. Armstrong. I still use the principles today. And, I still choose when to lovingly ignore them.

11. Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
I read this book way back in college, and I think explored the evolution of cities in a project centered on it. It is an amazing glimpse of the fragmented sociology of kingdoms told by a fictional Marco Polo. The young European explorer offers Kublai Khan, the aging asian emperor, tales of the cities throughout his empire. As it turns out, the stories all describe the same city — a lesson in points of view.

12. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
No elaboration required.

13. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
An unforgettable non-fiction account of one reporter’s indoctrination into all things Southern and a beautiful and quirky account of the mystery and crazy culture of Savanah, GA. Best tombstone epitaph: a bench at the grave of Conrad Aiken is inscribed with “cosmos mariner, destination unknown.”

14. Night by Elie Wiesel
You may have seen the account of my first reading of this memoir. I still shrink back from the book, but crave the undeniable reality check on human nature it offers.

15. Creating a Beautiful Life by Alexandra Stoddard
Every time I look at this book, I’m encouraged to pay attention to the little things and value beauty in my life. Beauty, as I behold it, is important and it’s not that hard to achieve.

16. On the Occasion of My Last Afternoon by Kaye Gibbons
A very moving tale of a woman during the Civil War era. In my first reading, I was compelled to record Emma Garnett’s thoughts on seeing the jarring, but numbing realities of that war through photos, and how it would have been more powerful in paintings…

“If Monet or Manet or Toulouse-Lautrec had performed the scenes of battle, I might have been urged toward emotion, for the horror would have quivered on the surface of the page and beckoned my mind to follow attendant sensations deeper and deeper to the core, down into the true, wasted, stupid, futile blasphemy of that conflict.”

17. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis
An example of C.S. Lewis’ creativity and a treatise on the nature of evil told from the perspective of a young devil in training.

18. The Divine Romance by Gene Edwards
A beautiful telling of the story of God–his creation, his work, his redemption–expressed as a love story. The very first page describes two essentials of God’s existence in the pre-dawn of creation. God was alone. And, God was love. A profound paradox of coexistence for both God and man — the lover without the loved.

18. My Mississippi by Willie Morris
Who can escape the words of Willie Morris. His thoughts about his (and my) home state are moving, steeped in memory and the fervor of the unique life here. His essay is accompanied by a collection of photos of the state taken by his son.

20. The Shipping News by Annie Proulx
The first descriptive word that came to mind when I read this book originally was “ethereal.” Its descriptions of characters and of the Newfoundland area were beautiful. The journey of a man coming to grips with his own history and finally learning to love was like a deep breath.